You Too


As far back as you can remember, you felt different. No childhood friend, never in phase, too often defenseless with no one to face. You lived near a wood in the land of winds. I guess in the city, you would have isolated your walls and roof, keeping secret your garden and your life.

You were raised into the wild. Through the window, you scanned wild animals. Loving and greedy, you know each one by name, little manias, even by small name. Also flowering plants, fruit trees, edible bulbs, roots with healing properties. You know the leaves, the grasses, the insects, the mosses. Every morning in the bush, away from the rush, when the light is soft and the sun still low, every little bird, sparrow or crow, chirps in your ear. For so many years you kept hidden, far from the heavy world, sometimes inside the crowd, but very few have noticed you.

Wild, like nature. Nature, like a savage. Strong of your silences. Low also, too often you say yes. For a long time you have sought in the dark, in the shades of gray, some impossible friend. Your brothers, your sister, the flora and all the animals, and the great changing sky, and the rain, and the wind, and your body in the sun. And your sweetness of honey. One day, weaving the Web, you found this site and you bathed inside. Mirror that looks like you, it returns your image. Nothing it displays is different from you. Everything speaks to you. Everything pleases you. You’ve found your double.

Your particular case is that of many. How many lonesome ramblers suffer to be isolated ? How many seek-earth, lonely vagabonds? You, my boy from there, you lost your way. It’s asleep in your heart, will probably wake up one blue day, when love comes. In the meantime you row. You groan in chains. You do not see you creates them. You’re claudicous, drag-paw. You should triumph, but you curl up. Your feeling is spinning. Too much nonsense you’ve been told, too many horrors and damn lies. You would like to change all. Your anger is danger.

You, prolonged teenager, lengthened with effort, too old to change your blue belt, you can tighten it on first dan, repinto di blu. You could conclude to my damnation. You thought I was a sorcerer, you thought I was perfect. You thought you were defeated, even bewitched. When you look at me, it’s you that you see. No one is less perfect than the one who gives lessons of life when he is defeated. I did not think proper to prepare you, the downpour fell, your account was good, you saw how stupid you are. If you do not believe in the art of track, read Castaneda, learn it by heart. You will find a trusty naive in the heavy ego but he is also the son of his works. Love disguises him, he thinks himself lost. Nobody is. He recognized himself as we know him. He did not perceive beyond clash the absolute love that I kept him. But you’ll understand, I’m sure. Your fate’s in your hands, my friend. It may clear up one day. Read Castaneda, read it again without a break, we’ll see each other again when all is correct.




You, my dear boy, friend of destiny, lover of the distant, you join your brothers, friends of misery, walls of loneliness. You put in common in immune mountain born from the sea storms or the ocean winds. You smoke your hemp and feed your goats. You have no love, no ambition. You have for all good only the gold of the decor. It’s nice outside ifever you feel good. You know the lessons of pain, lessons of misfortune. You know the resignation, from failure to deception, sins without remission. You read too much Eden Saga, it made you gaga. You cursed too much this world, you found it filthy.  You do not believe much, disgusted by things, crazy about the pink elephants and the morose porpoises laid by the tide at the four corners of the dream that unrolls its volutes on the beach when your return from fishing. You hesitate, you dry, the tide rushes, everything always comes too late. We are never pampered. But remember, you’re one of my friends. You are no longer alone. No never. Remember.

And you, straw girl, sumptuous scarecrow, you derail. You’re screaming. You don’t know your happiness, neither happiness does know you. You have read everything. You did not recognize anything. You’re lost, so mini, so tiny, you think we’ve seen you naked, so you feel lost a little more. Without censorship, you incense Ur, imagine origin, dreaming awake, like a no-life. The gods have come. They recognized you from the avenue that descends from the clouds. They invited you, now you took advantage. They made you taste the secret philter of immortality. In the shadows, your return to earth is announced. The future will hurt you. By force, it buries and forces to shut up. Ur and its mysteries are too much misery for lonely babies. Your hands are solid, your hands are binding with air beyond the seas in your mother’s heart. Bitter memories, fainting sadness, ephemeral sorrow when you got to say yes, without rhyme, without noise. A marigold dog is at your mercy thanks to its links woven from a thread of the golden story lined with brocards lamés to the groomed path that under the rush runs to infinity. Your heart is nesting in a tree with three moons. The sunset lights a bloom of feather suns in the eyes of the houses.

You, my sweet madman without license of madness, old friend of always, constant companion who bumps into the walls of the invented cage where he is locked up. You itou, old crazy dog, canaillou of do not know where, old trickster, old thug, old owl really cabbage. You hang out in belly, in babouche oreline and you mouth the holes of your line of time which unfolds a hundred times to the winds of each moment, at the time of each vent, half sad and half happy, half mi County contant.

You and you too, without forgetting yourself, neither you, my friend, nor you who are silent. For a little I took you for your reflection. To you who likes you in the hollow ways, you who runs the life as one runs the luck, in your immense heart one is very small. You do not have a nest, you live far from the cities all alone on your island and you like it. Too good to go out into the hostile world where you have to lie without ever feeling that the other is fragile. Lost without his island, all alone like a dog, all naked in the city, one hears nothing more. We wait tomorrow, we only have two hands to rebuild everything. We can not flee any more because the wall approaches and we feel the rock with the hands that always clings and approaches to finish it.

From you as well I could cite stories and refrains that you sang to me the nights without tomorrow in the enchanted shadow where the whistle of a train of the last century is heard far off on the other side. For you, for all of you who are still looking for a fate friend who accompanies you to the rogue of port – country of Cocagne where the dead sleep where all the wanderers play who loses wins where the last takes. In faith prowling in loincloth and quickly elegant. In the rat race, avoid gloves. Comedy or drama? When you understand it, laughter wins those of the last row.



Man is neither angel nor beast, and misfortune dictates that whoever wants to make the angel is the beast.
Blaise Pascal