The brief lives
He wiggles his fingers a Lighter worthless. Observing the anxious eyes of a wide boulevard that stretches out before him, his face contorts and his hands frantically agitated on the lighter. He always hated the outdoor cafés in Paris, and this morning his frustration is fueled by images gathered at his table. Nothing is in place. The cold air is responsible for some common suffocating from external radiators. The light from the sun too believed reflected on the table and the assaults, his eyes are not out of place in their orbits. He'd like to go back and look at the back of his skull, dark and warm.
cigarette in his mouth, he sighed with nervousness before this ridiculous black coffee, this glass of water he already knows he will hate the taste, too cold, too bland. A newspaper uninteresting beyond the table, and turning its pages, immersed in the depths of hot coffee. The frustration of conscious banality mingles with the freshness of the morning to seize the throat. It follows the look people in a hurry, with some escaping vapors sanitized. He then takes off again delivers gloves unnecessary guarding inside the cold of his hands. He has already made this gesture four times since he sat this morning. The dense crowd obstructs his vision, he writhes in her seat to watch the other side of the boulevard. Nothing doing, irritation bathes.
level rises relentlessly useless for hours. Cold, greenish, turbid, they infiltrated in recent days by the slightest gap in his schedule. He had previously stood. But the gap seems too wide open now, and boredom engulfed in him by breaking waves. Faced with this wall empty, he lowered his arm.
Across the street, behind the dirty gutters behind puddles, noisy buses and stinking, behind the stroller blocking the sidewalk and the old who discuss with their poodle, he saw life. In the department store with colorful displays, sounds, smells, tastes, faces and expressions are dancing wildly. The well-orchestrated chaos spreads in storefronts, and life will look like a puppy in a cage. Everyone's goal, mission, everything is as obvious and unpredictable. He is there, frozen in unnecessary hours, mesmerized by epilepsy ordinary world.
ago tasted it it is stuffed, it is private.
For the first time he was arrested, and leads This morning, preparing for battle nightmares. It cleaves the silence. Not the world, his own. Of course there is nothing to silence the voice of his thoughts. But a few thoughts, as rebellious as they are, struggling to find an echo in the desert. The response for survival, dialogue for a reason to live. But it further.
The day passes, and he fought all day an evil to be latent. Certainly a kind of acute pancreatitis, something digestive. The pain one feels when one has nothing to eat, and the stomach grinds painfully and thoroughly vacuum. It then puts these inflammation throughout his impotent rage, his revolt futile. If the empty stomachs are not very eloquent, they can make themselves heard. In
dying day, his wandering led him again on the boulevard. Disgust seized him again when he sees the café terrace. It sits next door on the curb. At his feet traveling butts and maple leaves. On the tables, newspapers too big, too hot coffees, glasses of water too cold, gloves unnecessary and lighters value. He smiled in his gutter.
colors dripping Boulevard and die a death vulgar, in the sewers of Paris. They slept a time on the pavement where the rain has swept along, and gradually fade into light orange plastic sun. Life fled also sucked into the mouth of the subway, who spit in the morning. Boulevard cleansed resumed his true face, discreet and pathetic as that of a great sad woman, blending gray stone that night. On the windows
batter in crash of iron curtains. The dolls' faces freeze. Of epilepsy joyful morning only stay a few thuds on the pavement wet. The pale light from the headlights of cars chasing intruders at night. Life at dawn omnipotent, fled like a rat, a miserable and shameful.
Puddles reflect neon signs, troubled by a few in no hurry. That is what remains of big business. Glare, fumes, gray shadows, not much of glory. Windows, and then nothing, inventory, boxes, promises and memories. On the glass fronts off, its reflection, laying the hurt on the pavement life. He sees his back pass into silhouettes. He believed he recognized the actors he admired in the morning. They will remove makeup, their clothes under their arms, their masks in a bag. But under the mask, nothing, no music, no color, no odor. A tone is absent. Madness dies cleanly without leaving a trace. And everything will resume tomorrow, for weeks, months, years, consistently. And the days go by, low and indistinct, and lives tired, tapering gradually to measure, will disappear without even being aware of it.
What difference, after all, in the dead there? What difference between these lives? There are many lives and diluted, somewhat pale and slightly warm, quiet taste, and short and strong like those ridiculous cafes, which may dilute the latest in the memory they leave. In these flames there, too much oxygen will be blown, and the wood goes too fast the red blood of passion to dull gray ash. And the world around them warms slowly, choking in the smoke of brief lives.
In any case, what is there more that image in his head and a few words to describe it? Life is a strange state of delirium permeable drug supplying a complex mechanism of representation. She climbs in snow, very fast in our minds, and six billion centers of the world parade in the center of six billions of imaginary worlds. And the end of the day, life up so high grounded in wavelet. No sooner does she wets the sand for a moment, then death arid erase the last traces.
And yet, this perfect state of fragility, of almost total insignificance, illusions, violent and understanding so well feigned by some good actors, is a chimera of vigor, strength and balance perfectly improbable .
He chose a brief life, he wanted to go to basics and had always been very impatient. The trivial would come later, he had decided very young. Boredom, routine, sleep, conventions, he had piled for years in a corner of the end of his life. Its purpose would spend weeks handcuffed to the bars of a radiator in his basement, and the rest trembled beside it on an electric chair. Today unfortunately, it seemed he had piled up too many trivial things, and that big pile of boredom that was before him began to overwhelm him. He was not angry or surprised indeed. He knew this day would come.
He enters the cellar, the door closes. What he leaves behind him? What is there before him? Long Beach of fatigue and disillusionment. It is still unclear whether the find courage to cross.
Whatever.
ago tasted it it is stuffed, it is no longer hungry.
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