Your life is before you like an ocean. You do not see its shores. Endless vastness, innumerable are the waves, infinite the reflections on the wave. You have no idea that it can be overcome. Privilege of young age. My life is also an ocean, but behind me. I go up the course of a river that becomes a stream, the source is close.
At my old age, when the spring is near, death waits. Who does it really wait for? Someone who takes his time… I want to go to the other world by the way of the schoolchildren. Brassens did. The gay knowledge, the sweet death. Not that death is sad. Neither frightening, nor even definitive. Invisible parenthesis. Death is a non-event. What is between two pages of a book, between the front and the back? The thickness of the paper. If the book is virtual, nothing separates the front from the back, because these notions no longer apply.
Like her, we are virtual, barely alive. We exist only by the love and joy that he gives us. My elf told me so.
How can we compare the incomparable? Death is like nothing that exists: it does not exist. Does a border exist? See on the ground: no dots on the ground. The earth is the same on both sides of the imaginary line. Death is thus an invisible door, a non-existent threshold.
Do you, the child who sings in me, believe that Terra cares about borders? They change too fast for Terra to care. If the planet doesn’t care, the gods don’t care either. Do as they do. You’re too young to do otherwise. King of the world, emperor of the living, you reign and you triumph. It is the prerogative of your young age. Die? Grow old? You don’t care. I’m just like you.
The warm and lively beauty of touch is much deeper than the beauty of wisdom. (Charles Dickens)
Son of Armor in Brittany, laugh often. Veer in the wind. Reef in the cape and change course. You who laugh through tears. On the back of the alarms. Tenderness is your dope. Your way of life. Love is your season. The gift is not capricious. Who gives with the heart will be seen in mine.
A happy elf dances inside me. He looks a bit like you. He reminds me of the kid I was, who I keep safe from the spray. Don’t let the boy down. If you enchant him, he lives. He remembers. He dies if you forget him. Those who killed him will also die. Deprived of themselves. The inner child went to the sewer. Disgusted with the narrow life left to him, he broke the leash. He shows up at mass showing them his ass.
But you? Love yourself as I love you. Beware my pretty one. Protect yourself from vice, emptiness and old age. Beware of the living dead who roam. They are legions. You know them without seeing them because your gaze passes through them. Dust. They have no light. Ashes of themselves, mourning. In the church, in the army, in the school, all those who scold are orphans. The inner child hanged himself. Penitents grieving, lost, back to the wall of lamentations. Contrition. Abjection.
You will grow up, it is important. So don’t be childish. Don’t hold on to anyone, don’t have your hand holding, everything changes and that’s good. Do not kill the given years. At the same time, live the child. You carry it in you alive. May it be your choice, your right, your king. Another child will come who will resemble him. Is he a wise child? A bird of passage? A nightingale in a cage? Is he far from the shore? Are you afraid of sinking? Are your hearts in rage? Forget your fear and swim.
Each of us is double or triple. We all have a secret age. Forced on sensitive souls, civil status is uncivil. We are better suited to the chosen age. The secret we carry with us. The age when the heart has made its nest.
A wise man is ten years old, when he has no more. The age he has chosen, and then the ages that laugh in him. He laughs with them and the moment smiles at him. His laughter does not mock. Merlin’s laughter is warmth, friendship. A laughter of remembrance. Merlin rejoices in the humour of life. He remembers being a moron. He doesn’t condemn that laugh. He stresses, he connects, he maintains. He holds with his hands. Yes laughter has hands. You will understand tomorrow. Forever the wise is between two ages.
As for me, I’m at least 100 years old. That’s the dessert for time travellers. When you’re 33, you haven’t lost the 32. Neither the 20 nor the 12. I camped for a long time on the enchanted shore of my twelve years. As long as I was happy, I often went back. And all that in the moment. In the astral, no time. Everything is given, present, instantaneous. These powers are in you. You can awaken them. Do you want it? Do you believe it?
The inner child is a precious gift to anyone who knows what dancing means. Dancing on the volcano or dancing in chains. Turn to the first wind and turn to sirens. Smile to lose breath and laugh to the whale. It is the child that pushes you to continue straight. The path goes up? And then? Nothing is so hard as to be believed. The child inside will come out to help you. His fairness and joy are there to guide you.
Never say if I knew. You were told, you didn’t listen. We deserve all our mistakes. We despise all the horrors. We meditate on all the bitterness. We mix all our colors. It’s up to you to catch up and tell you the history of the world. Listen to him sing the legend of centuries. The multimillenary saga of the old winds.
A world whose matter is not earth but sadness. This is where I was transported.
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