I’m talking to myself, to myself alone. An inevitable tide lurking towards me. Thoughts on the floor.
Outside, it’s cold. Inside, the wait weighs heavily. It weighs like sleep. Like a larva, I try to tend to the butterfly.
The secret is locked up. It’s so complicated. It is good to read between the lines.
You want to go out? the door is open. I do not know where to go but I’m moving forwards, … I’m scared.
The hidden face, without interest … Ready to face my ghosts. By dint of having to fight, I observe then I disappear.
I am elusive, barely appeared. It is striking to see oneself merge with the indigence of objects. I play so well hide and seek that i am sometimes forgotten.
I navigate between two things that are mutually excluded. In search of something to appreciate. I can’t feel the beauty of things surrounding me. I dread the death of the imagination. Creation remains a mystery.
Swallowed by objects, but nothing is lost. I reappear. I hide behind the evidence. With the ray of light, I seek who is chasing me. The devil is not always behind the door.
The view on dreams is faded. I connect to the frequency that makes me take comfort. The illusion of the future remains decorative. One has to hold on to it. It may already be happening.
I stay there without moving, I hold out my hands according to my habit.