Alice, je ne suis pas ton moi supérieur, ou une quelconque entité sainte qui aurait tant grandi, tant appris et qui serait parvenu à un niveau de conscience si élevé que la matière ne serait plus à expérimenter. Je suis juste ton futur toi. Plus détaché, et peut-être même plus enjoué... 

Alice, je t'écris aujourd'hui depuis le futur que t'es choisi toi-même, avec les moyens à ta disposition. Je t'écris depuis une drôle de ligne de temps. Une ligne de trahison, de déni, de ressentiment. 

Il t'avait promis un retour sur investissement. Et petit à petit s'est effacé, finalement. 

Une personne si bien éduquée, n'est-ce pas ? 

Une personne charismatique, 

Un flot de paroles constant, 

Un rire angélique,

Un sens de la réflexion désarmant. 

Qui a dit que les prédateurs n'en n'avaient pas ? 

Profondeur des mots, des mots minutieusement choisis, 

Ingénierie sociale, s'immisçant dans ton coeur, comme une maladie. 

C'est la couleur de l'enfer, 

Quand les mensonges salissent tout. 

Tu aurais pu sombrer sous la colère, 

Comme un cheval fou !

La colère n'est même plus au rendez-vous. 

Circulez, il n'y a rien à voir.

Tout le monde est parti, 

Avec cette atroce boucherie... 

Et il y avait ce cadre, si bien structuré. 

Adresse email parfaitement spoofée, 

Et le domaine qui va avec, très bien hacké. 

Instructions formelles, encadrées. 

Timing entre les paiements, diablement orchestré. 

Le processus de destruction pouvait, en toute confiance, débuter. 

Et toi, qui te laissait guider, transportée, animée par cette voix bienveillante qui a dû attirer déjà tant de proies dans ses filets. Une voix, une simple voix d'homme assuré t'aura fait chavirer. Bien sûr que tu cherchais un guide, un protecteur. Voici l'ampleur du vide affectif que tu ressentais. 

Cet ange noir dans ta vie, a fait tant de raffut, de boucan... Your life upside down. Entre mort et vivant. I lost myself, somewhere along the (digital) lines. 

He came from Glasgow, as he said. But he worked in London, in the financial headquarter. 

He came from nowhere, dropped in my life to teach me rough lessons I haven't yet to grasp, even today. 

I do have some clues about it, of course, but I guess I haven't reached that amount of consciousness to properly figure them out. 

I know it's about the way I used to relate to money. It became an obsession, took the lead of my life, when I was supposed to... Live. I know it was about money. Even I could foresee it, I could feel that destruction, that storm coming, feeling it like the last seconds before you sneeze. I know it was about money. 

Still Robert, (or any other name I will never know about), tu m'as trahie. I guess I just wanted to believe in this whole fairy tale. Big money, honey moon, and rest well. I wanted, for once, to be saved. Me, who was always three steps ahead of the others, helping them from deep in my soul. 

Yet progressively, it turned out that money corrupted this bond. 

Alice, tu voulais y croire. And you were in denial, car tu sentais la fin de ce cycle imminente. Tu sentais la terre commencer à trembler sous tes pieds. La terre de tes certitudes et de tes croyances, tes projets. Cette terre, bientôt inondée par la déferlante. 

Il y avait là quelque chose de sacrificiel. Il y avait là quelque chose à abandonner. Toutes ces années de labeur, pour l'heureux détachement matériel. 

Les pendules ont été remises à l'heure. Le compteur repart de zéro. Ce compteur indique une nouvelle heure, ce sera celle d'un renouveau. 

Avec le temps, Alice, ton coeur s'était asséché. La réussite financière, Alice, t'avait rendue insensible. Mais rien de tel que la douleur, Alice, pour renouer avec le coeur. Rien de tel qu'une grande claque dans la gueule, Alice, pour emprunter une nouvelle voie. On vacille, on  trébuche, mais jamais l'on ne se noie. 

Alice, tu avais choisi d'être seule. 

And you didn't go for the light. 

You went for the illusion of it, 

You went for a beautiful lie, 

Until, front of your face, it split. 

Les beaux mensonge sont toujours une fin. Et ils se soldent par le chagrin. Comment faire comprendre à l'enfant qu'il roule trop vite ? Qu'il ne prend pas le temps de savourer le nectar de la vie ? Il n'y a parfois que la chute qui vaille. Il n'y a parfois que la chute qui empêche que ça déraille. 

Alice, ça n'est pas ta faute. 

Tu n'avais pas les moyens de comprendre la nature du piège dans lequel tu t'es mise. 

A vrai dire, on a tout fait pour que tu ne les aies pas ;

te faisant croire à cette histoire à dormir debout. 

The universe itself deceived you, 

Mirroring your fantaisies, mirroring your ego. 

Ta chute était inscrite, Alice, 

Dans le ciel de la fatalité. 

Tu as fait tout ce que tu pouvais,

Avec le discernement et la vulnérabilité qui étaient les tiennes. 

Ta chute était prévisible, Alice. 

Ta ruine était inscrite dans la destinée des âmes qui n'attendent pas les enfers pour apprendre de leurs pêchers. 

Ta chute était attendue Alice, mais ta colère est saine. 

I can't wait to know my new me. 

It's when you lost everything, that you can set free. 

Ce qui ne te tue pas te rend plus fort. 

Samhain, renamed "All Hallows' Eve" by the Catholic Church in the 7th century, meaning "All Saints' Eve," originally comes from Celtic and pagan culture… Yes, my dear Muggles, it means something other than eating skull-shaped pizzas. It is, in fact, a period of transition, heralding the end, the death of a cycle initiated by winter, and the beginning of renewal. However, make no mistake, it is also a period known for being particularly porous. Yes, porous. Because it is a time when the boundary between the world of the dead and the living shrinks, or even, in some cases—and this is what I am going to tell you about here—becomes nonexistent… And in such cases, spirits who have not yet found peace in the light make themselves visible. Much like Jack O’ Lantern, who, failing to be admitted to heaven and hell, is forced to wander forever on earth, with a lantern carved from a pumpkin in his hand as his only companion.

Know, dear Muggles, that a young girl has a habit of standing at the end of the driveway leading to an abandoned castle, facing the road. This girl, whose name could never been revealed, always asks anyone who stops to give her a ride… And when the driver asks her where she wishes to go, she invariably replies, wearily :

“ I’ll go in your direction. That is to say, to infinity. ” All the while, she makes sure to look him straight in the eye to remind him of his crime. 

His crime ? But what crime, you might ask ? The story goes that the driver stared at her, a little bewildered, then, faced with the young woman's silence, decided it might be best to help her after all, and that he would take her on board anyway, for, let's say, a fee. The young woman fell asleep in the seat for several minutes, then several hours…

But as the hours passed, the driver began to imagine strange things. At first, it was just a thought. One of those fleeting ideas that crosses your mind, like a shiver down your spine. You glance at the passenger out of the corner of your eye, her hands folded in her lap, her breathing slow, almost childlike… She was sleeping so soundly, so vulnerable.

“She won’t realize it.”

The thought takes root. Then it grows in your mind…

You tell yourself you're just going to check something… It's harmless, that's all. It's not serious. Slipping your fingers into the slightly worn pocket of his coat, just to see…

Just a glance, you know, like lifting a corner of a curtain out of curiosity. Just in case… Just in case there are crumpled bills, a forgotten ring, a wallet ?

“Go on. It's just to see…”

Enough to make you think that this night won't have been a complete waste. Your fingers tremble, but something compels you to take the risk. And besides, deep down, it's exciting, isn't it ? Anyway, no one will know, right ? And then… And then, you go further. Always further.

“What if…”

What if she had more than money ? What if, beneath that white dress too big for her, beneath that skin as pale as wax, there was something else to take ? Something more intimate ?

Then you feel your throat tighten. And your heart pounds against your ribs. No. Of course not ! You're not that kind of person… But are you ?

After all, it's so easy… And besides, no one's ever caught you, until now. Those little lies, those betrayals, those times you turned a blind eye when you should have acted. Maybe you've even already done the unthinkable ? But no one knows. No one knows. No one ever will.

You glance in the rearview mirror. Who's watching you ? Only your own reflection stares back, a little blurry, a little alien, if you know what I mean.

"Come on. Just to see how far..." Your fingers brush against her shoulder. Her skin is icy. As if the life force in her body has dissipated. As if she were already...

But then, as you move closer to touch her, something inexplicable happens. The hitchhiker simply vanishes at your touch, dissolving into the night, returning to the other side of the mirror. Understand the spirit world.

But how could she have vanished into thin air like that, the bitch ? Disappointed, you set off again for several minutes, and then for several hours. But you always end up back at the same starting point : that castle. That cursed castle ! Exhausted from the drive and at your wit's end, kilometer after kilometer, unable to find your way, you finally reach this conclusion, this one and only possible conclusion : you've been going around in circles for a whole day now, and perhaps for eternity.

Of course, you don't quite understand what's happening to you, fuming at your dashboard, losing your temper, thinking you're having hallucinations here, or who knows what… You blame the night, the fog, fatigue… The whole world ! But that's because you don't know you're cursed. Yes, cursed. Cursed for something terrible you thought you could sweep under the rug, hide from your loved ones, from society forever, just like that, casually… Something you thought you could indefinitely evade responsibility for. But who said that justice wouldn't come for you one day, on the side of the road, opposite Saint-Blancard Castle, in the dead of night ? Huh, who ?

Perhaps on this Samhain night, when worlds brush against each other, you weren't dealing with an ordinary passenger. Perhaps it was… A border, instead ? No, she's not looking to be saved. She's bringing you back to the starting point. To YOUR starting point. To the exact spot where you thought you'd sown your responsibility, buried in the undergrowth of oblivion… But in this world, nothing is ever forgotten and every debt must be paid.

DISABILITIES CHRONICLES

Serge had lost his job due to an economic layoff. No need to code algorithms anymore, artificial intelligence was now doing it very well ! He was therefore in professional retraining, searching for something he could do to earn a living, and also, it must be said, to give purpose to his life. Him, who had only ever lived through screens, felt like he was deprived of existence without them. Without a computer, it was like he lacked a role in this society. It was these machines that somehow conferred his legitimacy. Without them, he could no longer express his potential or his creativity. Because the latter only manifested through the software he improved, always taking great care to keep his emotions to himself... He only allowed himself to have emotions about things that never put him in danger, virtual or non-committal things, or only things related to pseudo-secure family matters.

He was thus now spending his time in a certain boredom, having lost faith in his own usefulness in the world. What could he possibly do to help others ? Him, who was now sinking like a stone in the deep waters, unable to help himself ?

One evening, as he walked alone through the streets, he came across a huge illuminated display window. People were performing in front of it with slow movements, like a kind of Thai-chi, but embellished with dance, as it all seemed improvised. They were not facing the display window but rather the spectators who could also be seen. However, it was as if they did not care about that either, intertwining together in a sensual ensemble, adjusting their movements to one another in improbable tribal symmetries. One foot over the other, a leg gracefully withdrawing from that of its ephemeral partner. And always with an inspired and transported facial expression…

Sometimes, they would quicken the pace, jumping in this pure white room from top to bottom. It was neither a bar nor a library. Serge moved closer to the entrance door. Not to go in, no, he didn’t want to be a killjoy. Just to understand what this place was that hosted these strange people… A man, very tall and slender with long black hair, was playing the flute. He looked like a magician. He already had many wrinkles on his face, but for some unknown reason, it was clear that his wrinkles were much more laughter lines than frown lines. Tibetan bowls surrounded him.

"CULTURAL ASSOCIATION" was written on the glass entrance door.

“Were there still people who believed enough in the human being to give their time like that, for free ?” He thought associations were nothing more than a thing for elderly people…

"Do you want to come in ?" He was asked.

He turned around. A young brunette woman was standing in the doorway and smiling at him. Yes, she was indeed talking to him. For once, he was the privileged interlocutor. Him, who had spent the last few years locked behind a desk in front of a computer executing tasks in the shadows.

- Uh yes, why not... He ventured, a little intimidated by the young woman's wide angelic smile. Did he really deserve so much attention ? 

She opened the door a little more and he stepped inside for the first time. From the inside, of course, it was quite different. To be honest, it was even much better. The golden and soft light made everything even more beautiful, the sensuality of the dancers' movements, the depth of their gazes, everything. 

The music had actually no melody and was curious, but soon, as he sat among the few spectators, he felt drawn to it. Or rather, he wanted to mingle with this group of strangers. He didn't know them but wanted to get to know them, to taste them through their gestures filled with tenderness and beauty. He wanted to join this circle of madness too…

And it was as if the young woman had read his thoughts:

- You can join them if you want. The second part of the outing is for improvisation.

- Oh really ? He asked, a bit dazed.

- Well yes, totally ! But I advise you to take off your shoes, you'll be more comfortable… If you want, I can come with you.

- I don't know, I've never done this in my life… I'm not a very good dancer and even less of a choreographer.

- Neither are some of us, I assure you ! She replied, laughing. 

She held out his hand, and he didn't hesitate any longer. She was wearing strange clothes, but she was so pretty, at least to him… Serge was about to inhabit his body for the first time. And also his heart. He didn't know if he would find a job again, nor how much time he had left to live, but for now, and perhaps for the first time in his life, he felt like he was truly living.

Le ciel sur la mer, s'embrasait. 

Ciel sur la mer, parfumée. 

Effluves marines se confondant, 

Dans le coeur et l'esprit, rouge ardents. 

Concert de sensations, 

Volcan céleste en irruption. 

Mer sur la terre, projections. 

Rouge-lumière, attraction. 

Attrape-l'oeil, pour en faire un souvenir, 

Souvenir de ce rouge-soleil, hypnotisant. 

Moment dans la rétine, à jamais capturé, 

Beauté de l'instant. 

Ce n'était rien de plus qu'un coucher de soleil. 

Alors, coucher ces mots sur le papier, à quoi bon ? 

Les couchers de soleil, c'est surfait. 

C'est bon pour les pubs sur papier glacé ! 

Mais ce soir, tout était réuni, 

Pour que la réunion s'opère,

Entre les sens et l'esprit.

Ciel sur mer, 

Mer sur terre, 

Réverbérations-soleil. 

Ciel sur mer, 

Fascination-vermeil. 

We all live in a small, remote village in the depths of Missouri. Our parents all work more or less together. They all have jobs that are, as they say, "ordinary," but yet so useful ! Farmers, teachers, nurses... No engineers or magistrates, just people who do their work more or less conscientiously and who, when they come back from work, like to be in nature. Returning to this somewhat remote village, a little removed from the rest of the world and which sometimes seems to have been wiped off the map... Just like the other surrounding villages, moreover, lost in the heartland of America. The wide open spaces also keep them from going elsewhere. They like to breathe the fresh air, like their ancestors, and it was often the houses where our grandparents already lived that we live in. Large, thick wooden huts, with wide, generous porches, where our parents tinker, protected from the sun on the days when there was some.

We are a community of simple people who just want our peace and quiet, far from noise pollution, visual pollution, and even pollution in general ! But Nicolas was even more marginal. He was American too, but it was as if he came from another planet. No children, no house, no car, no credit... He lived in a sort of bungalow, at the edge of the forest, where we all liked to meet to hunt or have barbecues in the summer. We didn't really know how he made a living, because he didn't have a job. At least not an official job, because some in the community said they had seen him selling drugs, or at least some kind of herb that could have been illicit. Others said he fixed things for people, that he tinkered in general... But hey, all of this was just rumors, and sometimes spread by people who didn't like him, who thought he was crazy. And we didn't try to find out more from him because he commanded far too much respect from us to allow oneself to do such a thing... What was certain was Nicolas didn't need much to be happy and he had chosen an even more atypical path than our parents or our grandparents... And he fascinated us all, in a way.

We young people loved to play by the forest in the evenings after school. Playing country children's games, building huts and fishing for little fishes in the river, often releasing them, as there wasn't much to eat there ! This happened more or less naturally... Nicolas often gave us tips for building or repairing our huts, often seeing us hanging around nearby. Once, he even helped us build a small boat to go upstream in the river, while warning us that if it happened to be a waterfall at the end, or if any problem arose, he wouldn't take responsibility, that it was at our own risk... He had a dark sense of humor and a great wit, but he was always kind-hearted. We also sometimes confided in him because he was more easy-going than our parents, and didn't judge us for the stupid things we used to experience. No, he listened to us one after the other with a patient ear, us and our not always very exciting teenage stories !

And that's how it was, as we grew up, and later on, when we were about 16 to 20, that we got into the habit of gathering around the fire on Saturday nights, quite late in the evening. We would grill things to eat and some would even bring their guitars. But above all, we would all look forward to hearing Nicolas' stories. The fire brought us warmth in the cool, damp night air, but it also made his stories much more vivid. He would talk to us all night long about the results of his research. He called himself a "truth seeker." An investigator, but certainly not an official or conventional one. One of only unexplained or hidden phenomena, such as secret societies, Satanism, chemtrails, or even civilizations practicing white magic that would have ended up in the dustbin of history... We looked into the flames and could distinguish the faces of the creatures that Nicolas described... As if he knew these creatures intimately. The distortions of the flames made them appear in the hearth. It must be said that he told his stories very well…

Other young people and even girls from other surrounding villages who had heard about our evenings around the fire even joined in. They came in old, restored cars or on mopeds. We were all fascinated by the realism of his stories. He also sometimes said that many of our leaders were not of human origin, that some were fallen angels in the service of Freemasonry and Satan, when they weren't just holograms ! He often scared us, but he gave us so many explanations and details each time that we couldn't help but find it all coherent. Nicolas said he was reeducating us, making us informed citizens, and not docile, naive, and sleepy consumers.

Independence was his credo, almost an obsession with him... Some parents in the community prevented their children from coming, arguing that this Nicolas was nothing more than a dangerous fascist or worse, a cult tout, but we knew very well that he had nothing to sell or offer... As a matter of fact, we always saw him alone. Both his parents had been dead for quite a long time, and he didn't even have a partner, nor real friends, apart us, of course. But Nicolas also died, the victim of an accident that still seems strange to us to this day : A car allegedly hit him head-on as he was crossing the road to go get a drink at the hostel, 400 meters away from his home. And this, two days after he told us that he had had an extraterrestrial encounter with a peaceful civilization from the Andromeda Constellation.

 He looked at the clock face that stood in the living room : 00.00 AM. A feeling of completeness invaded him. This big clock gave to the total silence that reigned in the room a kind of content, almost an hidden meaning. The piercing December chill was silently knocking at the door. "Life is a cycle," he thought, looking at the icy drizzle that had settled on the windowsill.

It was officially Christmas. December 25, 2014. Actually, in people's minds, Christmas was more likely to take place on December 24, with the gift-opening ceremony. But he was a purist and only referred to what the texts he had read so many times said... So much so that he had been called a rigorist. No matter, he no longer gave any importance to any belief whatsoever.

The death of his companion in a bicycle-car accident had stunned him and brought him back so violently to the very material reality of his absence that all his certainties had collapsed. He had never been close to death until then and when it had come to crash into his daily life, shattering his habits rooted in the affects with a wave of the hand, he had found himself speechless, astonished by the violence of the brutal end that had been given to this nascent story by the life. A story that had, slowly but surely, taken root in their beings with that unique shyness that hearts have when meeting. Without promises, but always with the whole world on the edge of their lips to share in the silence of the depth of a gaze.

No rational or spiritual explanation had been able to overcome the dull worry that now permeated his heart. This worry that the light was not finally at the end of the tunnel. That something greater and more beautiful did not transcend human stupidity and that any harmony in the world was only accidental, thus condemning the entire universe to agnostic penance as well... 

No words were of any comfort and did not persuade him of the legitimacy of inhabiting this world now empty of his fellow, empty of meaning. Nothing that had happened found the slightest valid excuse in his eyes to exist, nothing justified the pain endured, initiatory spiritual journey or not. Him who had spent so much time consoling people in the confessional where he once worked in the parish... He had been wandereding for a long time, wandering from one religious or spiritual belief to one another, and when he undertook to think about the slightest thing, he always did so in an intense and profound way. He had been wandereding, had even traveled a little around the world, had merged a few beliefs together to find his own path to God or whatever original force could explain the architecture of life and its philosophical essence... He had carried out this work of deep introspection and research, like a rabbit digging its burrow, in a frantic and rigorous way, rationally, to say the least... Until he settled down, until he joined the church.

And just as he had emerged from this existential fog, having found a sort of mental stability with these charitable rites and habits, this accident occurred. This accident that had forcibly removed him from this relative state of appeasement the one he had imposed on himself by force, as one would impose a daily bodybuilding exercise on oneself. Finally, this accident had brought him out of a certain spiritual torpor, an artificial sleep from which he had abruptly emerged, more skeptical than ever as to the reason for his presence in this body of flesh and on this Earth.

He had been looking for signs that could have put him on the path to the reason for this accident, abandoning mental methods and other rational turpitudes in favor of the famous "letting go" that the New Age keeps drumming into our ears. He had tried the path of providence. Watching for a mirror hour, a white feather or some music reminding him of the moments shared on his sofa bed listening to various pieces that made them float, transporting them both into a kind of bubble...

He had worked in this parish for years, receiving anyone who came to him, conducting consultations from this kind of wooden kiosk, away from the benches facing the hotel. Of course he didn't count his hours, nor the hours he gave to each of the people who came to see him. If they needed an hour, so be it. If they needed 3, that was fine too. So much so that sometimes there was a queue in front of the confessional and the priest was obliged, kindly, to be strict, asking these gentlemen and ladies to wait their turn discreetly outside the church or even on a bench in the church.

He didn't just listen, and sometimes he also allowed himself to give advices. Advices that never came from him, but that he received, so to speak, very intuitively. He knew that he knew and that was it. If only he could have been endowed with this same intuition concerning his own person, here, right now... He had nevertheless continued to work in the parish, even if he was no longer animated by this same passion, this same faith, this same spiritual hygiene. He felt empty, but he continued nonetheless, so as not to abandon those he had helped before and perhaps also a little so as not to tip over himself...

He found himself, so to speak, speechless before his own fate. Him who had consoled so many people, of all origins, social classes and even religions ! Because yes, it happened that women of Muslim faith came to ask him for advice, by one means or another... Wasn't it ironic, after all ?

So, tonight, there would be no celebration at all. He hurriedly left the living room and behaved in the most atheistic way possible. He went to the kitchen to make him some hot tea, as if it could warm his own heart.

 Odile, 

Tu m'as demandé de te raconter New-York et ce stage d'anglais hors de prix... Tu voulais des détails sur le graal de ma future ascension sociale. Eh oui, à ce que tout le monde dit, sans l'anglais, en 2024, on ne fait rien ! 

Le stage était bien, oui. Le lit était confortable, check. Les cours, intéressants, check. Les gens gentils et blablabli, et blablabla. Tu me diras, pour le prix que ça coûte, ce genre de stages, il vaudrait mieux ! 

Honnêtement, je n'ai pas vraiment envie de tergiverser sur cette machine à fric, et encore moins sur les conversations vides de sens que j'ai pu avoir... Parler pour pratiquer l'anglais... Parler pour parler... Tout cela me laisse songeur. 

Pour tout te dire, j'en étais même arrivé à me demander ce que je foutais au milieu de tous ces gens auxquels je devais faire la causette pour apprendre la langue. Tout ça pour obtenir une promotion dans une boîte que je maudis tous les jours un peu plus... Elle m'a à l'usure, cette salope, et ils m'ont tous à l'usure, ces collègues et leurs gentilles ambitions emballées dans de gentilles intentions, emballées elles-mêmes dans de gentilles habitudes. 

Parfois je me dis "vivement la retraite", et puis je me dis que ça revient à dire "vivement la mort". 

Pas parce que les gens qui arrivent jusqu'à la retraite meurent d'une maladie grave avant d'avoir le temps de profiter de la vie -quoique c'est vrai aussi- mais parce que bien souvent, ceux qui y parviennent sont déjà mort de l'intérieur, ont déjà eu le temps de se faire rouleau-compresser le coeur et le cerveau par les contraintes sociales qu'ils s'imposent à eux-mêmes pour donner à leur vie une putain de direction. (Oui, c'est à dessein que je n'utilise pas le terme de sens.) Il n'y a qu'une seule chose qui tienne à peu près debout au milieu de ce gloubi-boulga égotique... Certains l'appellent "l'âme". Quelque chose qui observe, quelque chose qui apprend plutôt que de s'engouffrer dans la mêlée. 

Mais, trêve de digressions ! Il y a eu cette ascension là, Odile. Cet unique moment qui a légitimé le pourquoi de ma venue ici, sur cet autre continent. En à peine 10 minutes, les 10 000 euros ont été amortis, ma vieille. 

On nous a fait entrer dans cet ascensseur immense et avec ces parois entièrement faite de verre... L'Empire State Building. Cette cathédrale d'acier et de verre, temple de la finance. Oui, j'y étais. Cette tour, munie d'une arrête qui déchire le ciel... "Skycrapper", ils appellent ça ! Celle que l'on voit sur le mythique album d'Oasis, le tout premier en date. 

Et tout le monde, pour une fois, était silencieux. Tout le monde fermait sa gueule. Plus de dictaphone, de corrections, de coachs de je ne sais quoi... Tout le monde se taisait et regardait. Regardait cette forêt métallique à la fois terrifiante et inspirante, produit du progrès humain. Le soleil perché dans un ciel bleu qui se reflétait sur des centaines de milliers de vitres, peut-être des millions... 

Mais lorsque nous avons atteint le 86ème étage, il n'y avait plus de progrès humain qui tienne, et même plus d'humain du tout, d'ailleurs. C'était moi et le ciel, un ultime tête-à-tête. Cette attraction pour grands enfants m'avait amené plus loin que prévu. Et le vertige était délicieux, car il me rappelais que j'étais toujours sur Terre, dans cet enfer conscient, mais que je m'en éloignais, que j'étais à mi-chemin de quelque chose. Quelque chose de spirituel, je ne sais pas, mais au moins quelque chose de cosmique. C'est sûr, j'avais côtoyé, quelques minutes durant, mes hauteurs.

Cyril

There was this little village that everyone was talking about, I named Matala. This little village lost itself in the south of a small island, Crete. Small piece of rock, abandoned in the middle of the Mediterranean sea, like a dotted line. There was this hippie village, whose colorful streets rolled out the red carpet to all those who ventured there... Undulating esoteric shapes, words of intoxicating freedom, devouring colors in abundance... It was summer, in high season, and small gigs were fully swing on every street corner, in the warm darkness of this village... Raggae concert here, performance there, songs a little further away... There was something for everyone.

And for sure there were people in this village, which was bubbling with life, this little cauldron from which escaped laughter, and everything that you want looking like nothing more nor less than joy. The small village was celebrating, and the tourists mingled with the local artists without any problem. Everyone spoke simply from the position they occupied, without pretending to be someone in particular, and that was just fine.

An old man suddenly emerged from the hill, in front of a dreamcatcher shop. He came down straight from it, emerging from the shadow of the bush that lined the sidewalk, something in his hand. He did it nonchalantly, and a thick beard covered a large part of his face, worn by time. One could read on it many things and nothing at the same time, because it was as if his gaze blurred the tracks. A sad gaze, but which nevertheless carried within it a strange glimmer of hope.

He noticed right away that she was eyeing him up, maybe even since the moment he started to run down the hill, a sort of lost sheep in patched pants and wearing a lumberjack's shirt. He moved closer to the young woman, going around her to stand right next to her, facing the stage decorated with garlands. She stepped back to the side, a little embarrassed.

- Can I invite you for a coffee? I have two euros, enough for two coffees, he asked, waving the coin, a half-smile on his lips. 

- Why not ? She answered thoughtfully. After all, she had nothing to fear, there were people everywhere around her. 

They attended together the small psychedelic rock gig that was taking place on the square. A few knowing glances and a few jokes were exchanged but it was too noisy to speak of a real conversation. 

They took a few steps together once the concert was over, then sat down on a bench, a little away from the surrounding tumult. 

- Do you know why we gave names to the astrological signs ? Instead of numbers, for example ? He asked her. A mischievous look lit up his tired face. 

- Uh, no... Her, telling the truth, looked more questioning and taken aback. 

- Because they are Gods.

- Who do you mean, Sagittarius, Libra, Scorpio, etc. ? Are they Gods ?

- Yes, Gods who have been traveling between worlds...

- Worlds ? What kind of worlds, can you explain to me ? She asked, without trying to hide her skepticism. She was rather open-minded, but right now, she felt kind of lost.

- You can address me informally, you know... It's been a long time since anyone talked to me this way ! I don't live in Paris anymore, and will never go back ! Ahahahah. He spontaneously burst in laughs.  

- Okay, so what worlds are you talking about, then ?

- These Gods have been traveling between dimensions, if you prefer. And there are an infinite number of them, so it's fair to say that they have wandered a lot, like cosmic knights... Before coming here, to this planet, and putting their names on it...

- But for what purpose, exactly ?

- To make themselves the most powerful of the Gods...

- Oh really, they are not the Greek or Hindu Divinities ?

- No, certainly not... Because they have managed to do what no Divinity had managed to do before, which is imposing their own calendar on us ! And this is quite logical, cause they are entities that emanate directly from our solar system. They constitute its essence... 

- Really ?

- Yes, but these entities can no longer travel now. See, they are condemned to remain in our solar system to watch over men through the zodiac calendar... And they have made it by means of the calculations of this science that we call astrology. This way men can go back to their existence and thus know it. The Fibonacci sequence has also put us on the trail of their existence, but also many crop circles that they have imprinted in the ether before their sacred geometry struck matter with its seal... All these are only messages transmitted by them to make them understand that they are not alone in the multiverses, and that Galactic brothers are watching over them.

She listened to him like this for a good hour and a half, expounding on this theory that could explain the reason for zodiac signs to exist. Then, she spoke again timidly, hesitantly, to venture a question :

- You, you...

- No, I'm not homeless, he anticipated her. I live in a small cabin over there in the hill and I live a bit of a day to day life, but I'm not homeless. And not drunk either.

Et c'est comme cela qu'elle fit la connaissance d'Yves, qui n'était pas ivre, mais libre. Ou alors seulement ivre de ses jolies histoires...

Sur le parvis de l'hôpital La grave, les feuilles ondulent, 

Odeur de noix. 

Oui, sur le parvis les feuilles fabulent, 

Toulouse se noie. 

Au milieu des confettis oranges qui s'agitent, crépitent, tournoient. 

Tournoie Toulouse, ville de soleil, 

Transite vers un nouveau cycle,

Arbres vermeil.

L'automne s'est déjà invité, 

A la table de l'été, 

Ténébreux trouble-fête, il nous impose son carnaval.

Quant à elles, les feuilles par miettes, poursuivent leur route,

Se bousculant en rafales, 

Elles viennent, elles courent, tracent de nouveaux sillons, 

Elles tournent, tatillones, tapent toutes en rond.

Elles viennent, malmènent le vent... Puis s'en vont. 

Les feuilles slaloment entre les visages, 

Elles papillonnent entre les lignes, 

Pour ensuite vous prendre au dépourvu !

Vous faisant le plaisir de délires saugrenus... 

Elles caressent vos mines, vous faisant croire à des signes, 

Pour vous larguer... Dans vos propres abîmes. 

Introspection forcée, n'est-ce pas ?

Plus tard, elle s'en repartiront plus loin, 

Dans le soupir d'un vent polisson. 

Rien que le soufle divin, 

Qui jamais, jamais ne dit son nom !

Un peu plus tard encore, elle s'en repartiront, 

Prises de hocquets. 

Et leur course, venir se terminer, 

Sur vos pelouses, votre terrasse, que sais-je, les champs de blé !

Formant un fabuleux tissu fermenté, 

Une nappe humide où l'on s'apprête à déjeuner. 

A table, c'est l'heure, l'heure d'y goûter !

Aujourd'hui, au menu un nectar d'automne. 

De sa terrine de bruine, accompagné. 

Le tout agrémenté d'un pain un peu spécial, 

Le pain noir, diront certain.

Mais ne pas aimer l'automne, c'est comme reprocher à Dieu la mort. 

Cela n'a aucun sens.

Alors, vous reprendrez bien un peu de poésie de saison !

Et ne croyez pas que les feuilles soient mortes. 

Car faut-il encore quitter un peu sa basse condition, 

Pour comprendre, que dis-je sentir, que tout dans ce bas-monde est conscience. 

Non, ne croyez pas que les feuilles soient mortes. 

Regardez-les, regardez-les donc danser avec aisance ! 

Balloté.

D'un monde à l'autre, ennivré. 

D'une rive à l'autre, à travers les flots, 

A travers mon être, mon si petit être, 

Un grain de sable dans l'océan. 

Un grain de sable dans l'univers,

S'en retourne dans le néant. 

S'en retourne d'avant en arrière.

Mon corps si friable s'en remet à ma carapace, 

Ma meilleure amie, ma meilleure ennemie. 

Elle me protège des prédateurs, oui... 

Cette carapace qui me protège du monde, autant qu'elle m'en coupe. 

On dirait bien qu'il n'y a personne, à l'intérieur. 

Toc toc toc, l'on frappe à la porte de ma conscience. 

En ai-je une d'abord, mais qui suis-je, seigneur ? 

Et pourtant je ressens, je resserre les liens, 

Entre mon être et le reste du monde, les miens. 

Sublime cosmogonie dont je ne connaîtrai jamais le nom. 

Cosmogonie que je ne peux mentaliser. 

Cosmogonie, tissu confus de sensations. 

Cosmogonie marine, du fond de ma coquille que j'explore... A tâtons. 

Laissons le sel transpercer mon corps friable, fragile, frivole, de parts en parts. 

Et le long de ma coquille lisse, lasse, le sel m'enlacer ! 

Je me laisse entraîner, souvent contre mon grès, dans cette danse, la danse de ma propre vie. 

Mais que puis-je faire d'autre, depuis ma tour d'ivoire ? 

Sublime vulnérabilité. 

C'est sans doute Dieu qui l'a voulu... 

Ce démiurge un peu fou qui me brinquballe dans cette existence !

Mes sens entre les mains des clapotis des vagues et des remous. 

Et parfois, je me retrouve à genoux. 

Au grès des mouvements, des courants tourbillonnants, 

Voilà que j'échoue.

Oui, j'échoue ! 

Je dérive vers la rive, et de fil en aiguille, le vent m'emporte sur la plage des pommes. 

Vers une plage plus humaine, de partir on me somme ! 

Ma coquille luisante s'enfonce dans le sable humide, 

Elle marque le monde de sa patte, empreinte limpide. 

Mais je ne ressens plus grand chose, à bord de mon bolide... 

Si je ne retourne pas vite bien fait dans les profondeurs... 

Le soleil, même derrière d'épais nuages, aura bientôt raison de moi, 

Bientôt, il assèchera mes tissus... 

C'est dans la lumière que je me noie !

A quand la marée haute ?

Parfois, on me prend, pour me laisser juste après... 

Les enfants ne me veulent pas dans leurs collections !

Ma chair est blanche, et le teint de ma coque bien pâle.

Par chance, on me balancera peut-être à la mer...

Balloté, d'une rive à l'autre de l'existence, petite chose que l'on branqueballe. 

 - Tiens, je t'ai pas dit la dernière ! Ou peut-être que tu l'as vu sur ma story... 

- Vas-y raconte-moi les derniers potins ! Ca faisait longtemps qu'on n'avait pas bavassé au téléphone ! 

- Bah j'ai vu Norbert hier. Enfin, je l'ai croisé dans la rue. Le truc improbable à Toulouse ! C'est pas la ville la plus grande du monde m'enfin tout d'même, statistiquement... 

- Non mais Sophia... Franchement t'es pas drôle. 

- Quoi je suis pas drôle ? Tu sais Norbert, qui vient de Séville... Je pense que t'as dû le voir une paire de fois pendant les tournées de bières-pong le mardi soir... 

- Oui merci, je vois parfaitement qui est Norbert, même si c'était pas le plus présent dans notre groupe de potes... 

- Donc il est où le problème, pourquoi t'es si agressive ? T'as pas fait ta crotte, ce matin ? 

- Sophia, Norbert est décédé dans un accident de voiture il y a deux ans. En allant à Séville, justement... Tu le sais bien, le groupe avait même mis une cagnotte sur Facebook pour son enterrement... A laquelle tu n'as jamais participé. Bon, c'était pas un ami proche, mais bon, 5 euros, ça se fait... 

- Non mais attends, tu déconnes ! Je savais même pas qu'il était mort ! On parle bien de Norbert, l'espagnol qui a passé un diplôme de validation des aquis en management international pour pouvoir bosser en France ? 

- Euh oui, quelque chose comme ça... Comme je te disais, on n'était pas hyper proches. Mais ta blague est vraiment pourrie... 

- "On était" ? Quoi "on était" ? Je l'ai vu hier, je te dis ! Il passait à Toulouse avant de repatir à Séville ! On est allé boire un café ensemble... Il m'a même draguée, pour te dire... 

- Mais repartir où, Sophia ? Dans sa pierre tombale ? Il est enterré là-bas... 

- Non mais c'est impossible que tu me crois pas ! Attends, je t'envoie tout de suite une capture d'écran de ma story, là tu commences à me gonfler... 

C'est alors qu'au moment d'envoyer ladite capture d'écran, Sophia découvris, sur la photo prise avec Norbert dans le café, en lieu et place où Norbert était censé se situer, une chaise à côté de laquelle elle se tenait, un sourire rayonnant sur les lèvres. 

 Maria n'avait jamais bien su si toutes ces choses qu'elle ressentait depuis petite étaient le fruit de son imagination ou si elles existaient bel et bien... Ces énergies qu'elle ressentait dans les lieux et chez les gens. Ces perceptions qui inondaient ses sens, parfois contraires aux apparencesn qui lui faisaient perdre pied parfois en société et qui la faisait passer pour quelqu'un de bizarre, quelqu'un d'un peu fou et d'un peu absent à la fois. 

Parfois, souvent même, elle n'arrivait plus à se concentrer sur les conversations car c'est comme si elle entendait tout ce qu'on ne disait pas, tout ce qu'on taisait soigneusement pour garder une façade plus commode qui arrangeait bien tout le monde. C'est comme si elle entendait l'âme des gens crier lorsqu'en public ils affichaient leurs plus beaux sourires de circonstances. 

Si elle captait les émotions et les pensées des gens, elle captait aussi les lieux. Elle se "connectait" pour ainsi dire à eux et ressentait l'atmosphère du lieu lui-même, et sans efforts. Sans même l'avoir demandé, et cela en devenait même envahissant, handicapant. Il lui arrivait souvent de se renfermer complètement sur elle-même car elle ne supportait pas ce "bain énergétique" dans lequel elle trempait toute la journée, assise à sa table d'écolière et voulait le fuir le plus vite possible. Raison pour laquelle elle n'aimait pas manger à la cantine de l'école, car manger à la cantine signifiait une présence prolongée en ces lieux. Or, moins elle se frottait à ces énergies hostiles, mieux elle se portait ! Hostiles car pleines de jalousie entre enfants, de pression mentale mise par les professeurs et de manque d'ouverture d'esprit, avec beaucoup de certitudes transmises sur le monde qu'elle pressentait déjà s'apparenter à de fausses croyances... Tout se passait comme si la conjugaison de ces émotions négatives avaient une odeur, et laissaient une réelle empreinte en elle. Une empreinte de souffrance.

Il n'était pas question d'aimer un lieu ou pas, mais de ressentir son essence, sa coloration vibratoire. A vrai dire, elle pouvait même avoir des informations sur lui : son passé, à quoi il avait pu servir, et ce qu'on y faisait là, dans le présent. 

C'est ainsi que lorsqu'une amie de sa mère lui proposa un jour de la payer très cher pour obtenir des informations sur son défunt mari, elle ne su que répondre... D'habitude, les gens se contentaient de venir à elle avec leurs questions, auxquelles Maria, avec ses ressentis, apportait les réponses qui lui venaient, spontanément, en écoutant le flot de ses ressentis qui arrivaient parfois en rafale. Ces ressentis prenaient prendre diverses formes. C'était un genre de conversation intérieure ponctuée d'images, d'impressions confuses parfois -mais dont la véracité s'imposait à elle- et de mots, qu'elles pouvait entendre distinctement mais dont elle avait l'impression qu'on ne lui sussurait pas dans l'oreille, mais dans le coeur ! 

Elle disait aux gens qui veniant la voir, les gens de son quartier qui venaient gratuitement lui poser des questions, ce qu'elle percevait d'une situation ou d'une personne, et dans la plupart des cas, les informations étaient vraies et elle arrivaient parfaitement à cerner ces dernières. Dans la plupart des cas également, ses prédictions se réalisaient. 

Mais aujourd'hui, alors qu'une voie semblait s'ouvrir à elle, une voie clairement professionnelle où elle serait attendue au tournant, tout devenait différent : Etait-elle censée accepter cette grosse somme d'argent ou faire voeu d'humilité ? 

Après tout, l'un et l'autre n'étaient peut-être pas contradictoires... Seulement, monnayer ces informations qu'elle percevait naturellement et sans effort aucun depuis son enfance ne lui paraissait pas légitime. 

Et pourtant, elle savait aussi au plus profond d'elle-même que ces dons n'en n'étaient pas et que ces facultés extra-sensorielles avaient été travaillées pendant des incarnations et des incarnations par elle, ainsi que sa famille et ses ancêtres. 

 

L'héroine, je me dis que ça n'est peut-être pas pour rien que c'est interdit. Ce soir là j'étais faite et refaite, ouais. Une soirée au bord de la piscine, un samedi soir, le soleil de juin... Je me souviens avoir sauté dans cette piscine, l'eau était argentée, plus que cristalline, elle scintillait, comme si l'on avait fait fondre des bijoux dans cet immense bassin... Sa couleur m'a attirée, elle m'a juste hâpée. Je n'avais jamais vu pareille eau, ça c'est sûr. Une eau argentée, jamais je n'aurais cru cela possible... Et pourtant, grâce à l'héroïne, ça le devenait. Tout était sans doute plus beau, trop beau. Mes perceptions étaient peut-être déformées, mais je m'en foutais. J'ai plongé. J'ai plongé dans ce bassin et j'ai plongé dans le coma. 

I came to the conclusion that there is definitely a reason why heroin is something illegal. That evening I was in a bad state, yeah. An evening by the pool, Saturday evening, the sun of June... I remember jumping into this pool, the water was silver, more than crystal clear, it was glowing, as if we had melted jewels in this immense pool... Its color attracted me, it just captivated me. I've never seen water like this, that's for sure. Silvery water, I never would have believed it possible... And yet, thanks to heroin, it became so. Everything was undoubtedly more beautiful, too beautiful. My perceptions may have been distorted, but I didn't care. I dove into it. I dove into that pool and dove into a coma.

Je le sais parce que depuis, je vis entre deux mondes. Et lorsque je dis "je", d'ailleurs, je ne suis plus tout à fait sûre de ce que cela signifie... Quel est donc ce "je", cette substance qui fait des allers-retours entre mon corps et cet autre monde dans lequel je me trouve parfois ? Quelle est l'identité de cette chose qui parfois l'habite et y reste même enfermée et parfois s'en va explorer d'autres mondes dont Sylvia n'avait jamais eu connaissance jusqu'alors ? Est-ce bien ce que l'on appelle l'âme ? 

I know it because since then, I have been living between two worlds. And when I say "I", by the way, I'm no longer entirely sure of what it means... What is this "I", this substance which goes back and forth between my body and this other world I sometimes find myself in ? What is the identity of this thing which sometimes inhabits it and even remains locked up there and sometimes goes away to explore other worlds that Sylvia had never been aware until then ? Is this what we are used to call the soul ?

Je navigue perpétuellement entre deux mondes. Enfermée dans le corps frêle de Sylvia quand me revoilà flottant à d'autres moments. Mais flottant où, vous me direz ? Cela dépend de où est-ce que Sylvia veut aller, j'imagine... Ce va et vient entre la rigidité de la matière et ce monde où tout est plus simple est clairement déstabilisant. Est-ce donc cela, le paradis ? Peut-être pas... Dans ces lymbes, cet sorte d'éther où tout est plus léger, je croise des êtres dont je peux lire les intentions sans qu'aucun mot entre nous ne soit échangé. Leurs intentions sont plus ou moins bonnes, comme pour les humains en fait, sauf que là-bas, on ne peut pas tricher ! 

I am constantly navigating between two worlds. Locked in Sylvia's filmsy body, then I'm floating again at other times. But floating where, you would ask ? This depends on where Sylvia wants to go, I guess... This back and forth between the rigidity of matter and this world where everything is simpler is clearly disturbing, though. Is this what paradise supposed to look like ? Maybe not... In these lymbes, this sort of ether where everything is lighter, I come across beings whose intentions I can read without any words being exchanged between us. Their intentions are more or less good, as the ones of humans in fact, except over there, one can't cheat !

Parfois, j'habite le corps de Sylvia. Je ressens la couverture trop fine du lit d'hôpital sur sa peau. Les courants d'air de la porte qui s'ouvre et qui se ferme qui passent au travers, j'entends la voix du présentateur télé d'une émission de divertissement... Longtemps ils ont laissé la télé allumée pour elle, comprenant qu'il y avait des chances qu'elle puisse entendre ce qu'il se passe à l'extérieur, depuis sa coquille. Je sens glisser cette couverture sur elle lorsque les infirmières s'activent autour de son corps inanimé. Ce corps inutile qu'elles continuent pourtant à traiter aussi bien depuis des années... 

Sometimes I inhabit Sylvia's body. I feel the too-thin blanket of the hospital bed on her skin. The drafts of the door opening and closing passing through, I hear the TV presenter voice of an entertainment show... For a long time they used to leave the TV on for her, understanding that there was a chance she could hear what was going on outside, from her shell. I feel this blanket slipping over her as the nurses work around her inanimate body. This useless body that they have continued to treat so well for years...

Parfois, lassée de cette expérience terrestre si limitée, Sylvia se met en orbite pour aller visiter d'autres contrées. Je fais alors plusieurs fois le tour de la Terre comme pour dire au revoir à ma planète et la remercier. Puis je vais visiter d'autres planètes, d'autres galaxies, d'autres civilisations souvent plus évoluées... Je suis tellement curieuse de voir comment d'autres consciences peuvent vivre... C'est encore mieux que de voyager sur Terre. Parfois, ces consciences ne ressemblent à rien d'humain. C'est effrayant, mais aussi très intéressant. Et parfois, nous communiquons par télépathie. Ils me montrent leurs architectures, leurs systèmes politiques post-démocratiques, etc. Ils arrivent aussi qu'ils n'aient pas besoin de se déplacer, mais se téléportent par l'intention !

Sometimes, tired of this limited terrestrial experience, Sylvia goes into orbit to visit other countries. I then circle the Earth several times as if to say goodbye to my planet and thank it. Then I'm going to visit other planets, other galaxies, other more advanced civilizations for most of them... I'm so curious to see how other consciousnesses would live... It's even better than traveling on Earth. Sometimes these consciousnesses don't look like the human beings at all. It's scary, but also very interesting. And sometimes we communicate telepathically. They show me their architectures, their post-democratic political systems, etc. It also happens that they don't need to move, but rather teleporting by intention !

Je peux aussi, de la où je suis, contempler mes proches qui viennent me visiter, même s'ils sont de moins en moins nombreux, et qu'ils viennent de moins en moins souvent... D'autres aussi font semblant d'être tristes mais je leur pardonne, car c'est comme si, de là où je suis, plus rien n'a d'importance, pas même les émotions lourdes comme la rancoeur ou la jalousie. Sans parler du temps, qui lui n'existe plus du tout ! Je suis détachée, mais ça n'est pas comme si je m'en fichais, non... Je suis détachée, dans le sens où je suis sereine. C'est pour cela que je peux transmettre à ceux qui sont tristes pour moi ou tristes de m'avoir perdue, un peu de cette sérénité que j'ai ici, en quantité illimitée. Je ne suis pas obligée d'aller la chercher par des pratiques à la mode comme la méditation. Non, de là où je suis, je l'ai naturellement. 

I can also, from where I am, contemplate my relatives who come to visit me, even if they are less and less numerous, and come less and less often... Others also pretend to be sad but I forgive them, because it's as if, from where I am, nothing matters anymore, not even heavy emotions like resentment or jealousy. Not to mention time, which no longer exists at all ! I'm detached, but it's not like I don't care, no... I'm detached, in the sense that I am mellow. That's why I can transmit to those who are sad for me or sad to have lost me, a little of this serenity that I have here, in unlimited quantity. I don't have to seek it out through fashionable practices like meditation. No, from where I am, I have it naturally.

Et je pense qu'ils ressentent cette sérénité, car même si je lis toujours l'inquiétude sur leur visage, c'est comme si une espèce d'espoir lointain venait éclairer leur regard d'une joie un peu folle. Celle de se retrouver un jour sur Terre ou ailleurs. 

And I think they feel this serenity, because even if I always see the worry on their faces, it's as if a kind of distant hope came to light up their eyes with a slightly crazy joy. The one of refinding each other one day on Earth or elsewhere.