A possible extract from the autobiography written by my future old self

"(...) I had been warned early against all joys.
Especially the intense ones; or the deep ones which so closely resembled happiness
So I let myself yearn for them, recognizing some virtues in that
but I didn't let myself have them.

This had been of course pure, unadulterated cowardice and vanity on my part
but I remember deluding myself into calling it "lucidity"
-How presomptuous of me

I had passed through my life as a ghost
I had been the woman on tip-toe someone
- a Liberian peace activist and Nobel Prize winner called Leymah Gbowee -
had warned people not to be
the poetry of ether - a waste of air.

- What insanity, not to be present in one's own life
in one's society
in hope the losing-all - the dying - would go more smoothly.(...)"

I'll prove my future old self wrong!, I thought as I reread these lines
because in writing an autobiography - which I would do -
a great synthesis of all I had been and all I ever encountered,
I would bring sense to it; the magic of narratives; materiality.

I would call it: life of a ghost
or regrets
or a lifetime of looking through the glass window

In doing so I would be putting myself out there and it all
wouldn't have been in vain, all these many years,
this breath.

I would finally leave footprints
that would outlast me

Lesbienne

Pour qui est ta sensibilité

Pour qui ta fragilité

En miroir de qui as-tu construit

Ta force

Une autre femme

Le piège

Auparavant, l’arrivée du printemps était pour moi source d’émerveillement. 

Aujourd’hui, l’impermanence de ses beautés me le rend 

faux, 

trompeur. 

Je ne peux admirer: 

- parmi les blés, taches écarlates, les corolles précieuses des coquelicots, 

- les merveilleux myosotis,
jetés comme des paillettes bleues par pleines poignées dans l’herbe grasse, 

- les froufrous éclatants des hortensias qui exhibent leurs tiges et leurs feuilles vert tendre
aux grillages des jardins privés, 

sans en ressentir une mélancolie profonde.

Ainsi en va-t-il également des autres plaisirs de 
ma vie. Elusifs, fuyants, 
ils ne sont jamais miens, quelque soit la détresse avec laquelle je me tends vers eux, la cage thoracique gonflée com
-me les voiles d'un bateau.

Qui pourraient les ancrer un peu en moi ?

En demandant « qui », j’ai l’impression de me tendre un piège. Mais le genre de pièges auquel 

celle qui est lasse de fuir en avant

se laisserait volontiers prendre pour goûter un peu de répit. Lorsque l'on s'affaisse avec toute l'innocence possible,
l’intervalle entre la douleur que nous causent nos poumons prêts à éclater et
      la morsure d’une mâchoire de fer : 

là, sans doute,

se situent nos joies                                                                             les plus authentiques.

Sorcière

Ces généralités qui sonnent parfaitement ou vous couvrent de ridicule selon les situations, qu'est-ce qui les rend différentes de celles qui s'avèrent toujours justes après des siècles? Leur longévité nous les rend précieuses, on croit comprendre qu'il s'y cristallise quelque chose de notre condition. Se leurre-t-on? Réfugiez-moi dans les interstices, les atomes passerelles que le regard omet parce qu'il les tient pour évidents et où se cachent les plus terribles "pourquoi?". Je me tiendrai là comme une aspérité douce et j'échapperai à notre sort commun de prestidigitateurs de pacotille.

ombres

En la plupart des filles et des femmes, quelque soit le degré d'assurance dont elles paraissent faire preuve, on décèle au fond ou les nimbant comme un voile une sorte d'entité frêle et vacillante en quête de validation masculine. C'est elle qui les rend promptes à l'idolâtrie, les laissent prêtes, aussi, à être anéanties par une marque de rejet, un aveu de désamour. Sans doute y-a-t'il quelques femmes qui y échappent, s'en affranchissent vraiment, idéal lesbien des sixties, et leur beauté de femelle libre est je crois toute autre que celle que l'on a pris l'habitude d'idéaliser.

Pour toutes les autres, enfoncée comme une épine gorgée de poison dans le coeur, il y a la griffe crochue du désir patriarcal, il y a entravant leurs magnifiques corps d'êtres humains ces chaînes invisibles, ce bondage qui nous les rendent a la fois sublimes et veules. Excitantes et méprisables. Putes et saintes. Mères et chiennes. 
Accrocs à un système de valorisation qui en dépit de toutes les dénégations - empreintes de détresse -, nous asservit surtout. Pourvu qu'il reste au coin de l'oeil. Pourvu qu'on ne le regarde pas trop en face... Pourvu... que.... Qui...? Chhh...

Parlons de nos féminités.
Parlons mascara, jupes, courbes, vernis.
Parlons main-mise sur nos humanités.

Avec l'âge on s'ampute on s'élague on se polit on gagne en maturité.

Full circle

How can you be surprised of anything in a world where nothing really makes sense?

Children grow up in a world where they expect things to make sense, to be meaningful. Where they expect their parents to know what the hell is going on and that's the lie parents feed their children to obtain obediance.

Authority = I know better. I know.

The horror of the realisation of the ignorance of the parents pervades them very slowly as they grow up, triggering terrible fear.

Do we ever recover?

Authority is power and power can alleviate those fears.

Children become parents.

L'impossibilité d'une île

Drowning slowly, almost languidly, in a dark green ocean,
surrounded by other swimmers with more skills and stronger
None of them can tell, none of them care
And I am one of them as well as alone and sinking
out of breath and wit
endlessly confused,
incurably disappointed in a world
that is 71% water.

Nihil

I've got a skull full of what-fors and their echoes
Although the space in there feels gigantic
The bones marking it off are like an extra-thick wall, a blockhouse, a bottomless pit
Screams go unheard in here
Craving hands fail to be ghostly enough to reach through the granit
Inner suffering only resonate with outer suffering and
immediately crawls away from it shrinking on itself like a worm
Wears instead indifference as a sophisticate armor a tool of disconnection
That'll desensitize one from the soft touch of lovers
And in one's hair close to one's ear tender murmurs and pleas

Only to be met with similar frames of mind
Within other skulls soon to be bare

Ode alors

We’re always on the verge of tears and yearning for an excuse to cry, for someone to finally press one of our triggers.

For there is an irreconcilable division inside of us, taking not the shape of a single trait separating our core into two distinct parts, but that of a tiny fissure in each of our particles; oh, none of them was left whole, not a single one, and we are torn apart endlessly.

Sinking deeper and deeper while reaching for the stars. Exploding in every directions and withdrawing into a black hole.We are the sum of our attempts at compromises.

And I am so many little scrambles and sometimes I am no one at all, the sad failure of a self, the resulting emptiness of a continued lack of consistency.

But you, my friend, built from the same hazard, you’re a beautiful soul feeding on wonders. And I’m a mere attempt of an answer to your quest for something that was already within you all along.

You’re a star and I’m a mere satellite and I’m contented orbiting around you – in giving me a sense of top and bottom, of left and right, you gifted me with a purpose.

Should you vanish, my beautiful friend, I would be left shivering in the dark, a wandering pebble, an unsightly little thing, instead of the beautiful Moon you made me.

There's almost always a strange feeling enclosed in my rib cage striving to break free, a something I cannot tell, an explosion endlessly contained that I carry with me forever like a beloved millstone.
I lose myself whenever it goes amiss.
Or whenever I lose myself its pressure behind my curved bones vanishes
and my teeth turn into fangs and my fingernails into the claws of a cornered animal.

Instructions for a romantic relationship

If you wish to lean on me, lean lightly, for I'm still a bit unsteady on my feet. If you want me to embrace you and soothe your fears, be prepared still to be on your own, for my weird little soul is but a frail protection against your monsters. Accept my love very carefully and give me your heart little by little to lessen risks of transplant rejection.
Passion is for the strong; as for ourselves, let's commit warily to each other and love in hushed whispers.