I wanna write my book this way

There's a trigger ticking at midnight like the heart beats three times while the human ear can hardly catch a glimpse of two dim blood movements gushing infinite pulses and waves of life. That's the starting point to what anyone desires ; anything more than a bit of an answer to the many questions and whirling intimate statements electrified and hidden to the audible world. The outside is out there IN our mind desperately searching for some any other one to attempt to utter the approximate exact impression as the one felt through the anti-desire to be ONE. "When I am alone, it isn't me who's there and it isn't you whom I am staying away from nor any other than myself nor the world. I can't be the subject feeling this impression of solitude, this feeling of my own limits and this boredom of being who I am. When I am alone. I am not there." What's coming to me isn't that I feel a little less myself but what's behind me, what I dissimulate to enter to the world. When I feel at the same wavelength as the world where things and beings are too, the self is deeply anchored and hidden somewhere.

I am experiencing myself harder and stronger. I get to prove I can quit drugs and liquor to better get back at them whether I am alone or not. But the sensations from these meaningless habit like spans of time remain the same for I am where other selves and things are, in the world. Yet, I wonder how the image I feel and experience in time interact with my words and moving fingers at night when the light from my computer screen hits my retina and imaginary realm. 

I came up thinking motion and stillness are the extremes that paradoxically animate the lightning-bolt vectors composing my fractal imprint on and under my bed sheets... The exact position of my self at night is supposed to be at ease in principle... Through the night when the eye sleeps, the day uses the night to actually erase the night. Sleeping belongs to the world I am entering too when I awake. It is a task as strong and valuable as the law to which I abide through motion and many activities such as going to work and all... 

Day&Night / Motion&Stillness / The Imaginary&The fixed image... All of those well known "duets" ordering the self to interact between forces it can't help but struggle with when that trigger wears off to evaporate into solitude and the thinking process thus initiated. Although there is something I am so eager to write about (or maybe I just did), the attachment to the world through the imaginary/conscious and frustrated process of thinking and creating in daylight and the detachment from the day into the night into a more concise frame, the body at ease accepting the law from the day to rest into the night to better detachment the self from the multiplicity of things and beings around my self. When I sleep, I do accept that I enter a realm where there is no place, no time but the naked firm and fixed truth of my body laying motionless actually decreasing its temperature from not DOING anything but sincerely resting on the fact that as the day leaves the night alone my self gets OUT of the world.

I wanna write my book this way. 

Mute church bells & the hypocritical book of History

For he'd hear dim dissonances and roars coming from the cries of cities burning down in the ancient memories he cherished so, he could claim the lazy church did not dare to wake up any one in the area. Midnight is here and the minority of the collective consciousness is already in bed. 1 AM and a few more disappear ungracefully. 2 AM and yet you can still hear the drunken prodigious souls going home to their family or pets and solitudes which in many ways they have tried to forget while reading their fate in the bottom a wine glass and numerous tequila shots.

"What a mistake this is! Let the world know that the night tells the naked truth and that the day merely helped us to realize that we exhale dirt and that plants feed on it to intoxicate our exhausted brains from the stolen astral light we entrapped in bulbs and lamps and hidden smiles screaming EURÊKA with guilt and irony wondering if someone somehow knew this too at the very same instant."

He got it ! To please his soul and believe in no coincidences, he chose to unmask his own language, to twist it and to cut it in pieces and spray them damn meaningless pieces turned into dust, blowing on open palms up towards the starry ceilings and reflexions he dreams of himself. Let him write but make him shut his mouth.

"Set your teeth free and run on tiptoe like a half-goat half-man holy abandoned orphan/creature they say that hates us all. Let the animal go wild and shove its claws in their chest with words that touch them deep until their nerves ache at their very root called the spine itself the very root of balance that traces back the miracle of the DNA discovery -- the head, the body and the tail and the endless question of origins and creation. Oh set it free! Please! I pray to the silent echoes of the mute church bells!"

He'd rip off his eyeballs but he could only dream of such a pathetic act he'd heard or read somewhere... That is not his own will he feels but the sympathy for the tortured spirits the Earth carries on her many faces. And yet... "When does it start and when does it stop ?"

All of it. It's in his head. Nothing's real but his thoughts that won't ever materialize in day light keeps making his heart beat joyfully paradoxically taking him by the hand from the inside out in a surreal hallucination of ecstasy.

"It's time to stop fighting the obvious... We can't help but think of freezing time and act like starved baby foeti by doing the opposite of trying our best to make it actually the priority of our deepest and dreadful goal in life... to catch a glimpse of memory and make it be a trace, a desperate written line in the subjective and hypocritical book of History."

Vinyl

It always starts the same way. You drink a glass or two or even more with friends intoxicated and cracking up at every stupid joke you'd say. You end up saying you'd love to go to a club to dance and make the integrity of your corrupted soul dance and cry with joy on a concrete floor feeling safe and sound around sad persons looking for a little bit of hallucination. You say you'd die for it ; for the last drop of sanity gushing through your lungs out of your soul longing for salvation. The dancing complex swallows you whole making you fall into oblivion and yet you can still feel the outside world waiting for you to pay your rent and go back to work and get sick of it once more until you can't help but wonder when you're gonna feel that false freedom again.

"Oh Karl, when you are not safe, I am not safe"*

There's something troubling me down in my throat. I already tried to pick it up with my fingers down to my fist deep in my mouth but nothing but a scream came out. I startled at first and then realized it must have been so much frustration and pressure from everyday life getting out o' my body to allow my mind to cool off and make my brains roast in peace on my flaming skull powder. It's a weird sensation I thought and then confessed to myself that the only reason that – let's say – reflex needs to explode from the inside out from time to time is that sometimes I can't allow myself to let go and feel free to think and move and write the way the words come out nakedly with vocal cords and harp dissonances shaped like a typhoon crashing on every single surface of my apartment. Now it feels much better. Thanks to the world for ignoring me once more.

* from HOWL by Allen Ginsberg (but of course!!)

Serial Killers don't mind (part 2) - being guilty !

I mourned your loss even more longer than I expected. My heart is still rotting slowly as I tend to make my brains pretend my guilt has been proved. But there is this noise inside my head spreading cautiously through the void of atom oceans pouring in torrents through my veins ; it's pulsing and dancing with its knuckle like waves beating and pounding against my nerves and muscles and bones, arms wide open to scream with horror ! What have I done ? Deep down I know there is some pieces of evidence shattered away under the carpet. This can't be thrue. I AM NOT GUILTY !

Every time I step outside of the cell I cry my heart inside out and witness that very scene around and around like a never-ending 8 montage rolling all over the back of my head where the beat goes on and on too as if something else than my need to cry needed to break through too ; could it be the tiny little burst of nothing warming up the void of the alibi I have been given ? I SWEAR TO GODS THAT I AM NOT GUILTY !

The third time, he had to die, for the heart of things beats three times and disappear. It's magical ! IT'S FREE !

extremes meet in the middle

I take deep breaths and enjoy the silence while the clock ticks and knocks at my thoughts beating against my brain! It's a snake-like thing that drags me down... But no 'nos'! Only 'yes' and steps forward... [...] The pirate inside o' me is already drunk and eager to some more! More & MORE! Life's so great when you get to write it down, when you drag Bad and Evil down with your head held high! I run naked in the forest, looking for the treasure of life. I run and shine like a sun. The moon is jealous of this free state ofmind of mine. I laugh at her. I tell her that we simply look like each other. I run and turn into the sun and she runs after the sun and gets her whiteness from the dim ray of lights she oversees. I cheer up the moon and the moon thanks me. I gave and got the joy of the moon in return. I’m blessed. Lifegoes on for anyone, anything… My clock stopped ticking. Space and timesuddenly froze around me. I touch the sky and kiss the rain. I smilerainbows and keep running. My heart shines like it never did. I am love. I am universal. I stop and sit and contemplate the calm water of a pond. Aleaf flies to the gentle wind and slowly lays on the water creating soft andpeaceful circles. The miracle of life is happening right before my eyes. Mysoul whispers words of truth and I listen to them. I close my eyes and stretch out my arms. I offer myself to the world. My mind, this quiet little place, is ready for the beauty of life. My heart is pure and my heartbeatsgolden. I cling to the grass and feel it. Feel it. It’s fresh and my throat, dry and shy, murmurs that it’d love to kiss the pond and drink it until the very last drop. The water in the air. The water of the grass that I touch. Thewater of the pond. The remedy against water is even more water. So I diveinto the pond. The water below me. The water above me. The water inside me… I am the water. I feel life. I can hear the dim roar of the rays of sun crashing on the surface of water. It is incredible what the mind can experience. The body is getting bored. We go back on the shore and sit up to contemplate this view. My body stands up and it starts dancing. My arms, so soft, so loose and my soul so flexible. I dance. I feel the Earth every time I put one foot on the ground. I feel the speed of the world spinning round. I feel the wind of the universe kissing me on the cheeks. My joy is complete.Extremes meet in the middle.  

shut your whole body down

There is a chill in

the air that

keeps whispering

to me,

petting my hair

gently, running down

my spine to burst in

my pants.

The kind of chill that cools and

shut your whole body down.

It's you facing your own death

and letting go your utopian

connection to the universe.

You are nothing but a tiny bubbling pale spark of light.

Popping your way out in the cosmos,

you find your place in the emptiness of time

and space to settle down

and cry with joy.

Oh victory! Oh glorious day! I made it! I made it OUT!

I have no fear now.

A veil shrouds your eyes,

catching a spell on your consciousness

– no memories left behind.

Pure annihilation that finally out of breath

let it out and

spat it out and

vomited its true wild unfixed uncharged mysteries and

dreams like nightmares and

nightmares like dreams in

daylight bursting into

flames of powerful rage and

a destructive middle finger.

The day Dijon was wiped off the map

Taking shelter on campus

They said the city had to be put in quarantine. The authorities would not let any one in or out. The first week Dijon started to be wiped off the map, everybody called their families to ask them how it was like outside the city and they said that the government decided to build up walls to isolate the area without going into details. Every body was scared. Riots started raging downtown. I lived near Place Darcy, which was inconvenient for most of the population moved up to the heights of Talant to have a clear view of what was going on as well as to avoid the chaos roaring downtown. Some said the scenery looked like one of a science-fiction movie. It was uncanny. The Paris-bound down on the A38 was congested with dump trucks loading huge piles of earth and concrete so that no car could get on or off the highway. They closed all the roads linked to the city as well. People were all over their computers and phones, trying to get some help from the outside. The walls reached such heights that it became harder and harder for people to observe what was happening at the doors of the city. People disappeared. Some said as they came from what they called the “inner wall” that authorities were setting up fires all around the city to persuade the population not to try to get through the barrages. Some others said that those whom nothing could dissuade them never returned. We were trapped and from were I lived I was literally stuck between two threats – riots got even worst downtown and the deranging silence from the A38 highway up to Talant worried people so much that everywhere you could see men, women, old people breaking down in the streets, hysterical, sometimes naked and lost children crying, looking for their families. The population got insane. Dijon turned to a block of despair where chaos ruled over everything leaving nothing in the streets to enjoy but fear. Gangs were squatting strategic points such as the Theater or churches from where they could easily get to the food rationing containers dropped from helicopters every week.

I stayed home for one week with all of the shutters of my apartment closed. I got to hear from a few friends whom we agreed with to meet up on campus where it was said to be safe. I barely slept at nights so I decided to pack and leave my building to find my friends. I had decided to take a long detour to avoid the gangs. It took me an hour and a half to get from Rue Devosge down to Boulevard Strasbourg ; I avoided avenues and preferred narrow streets and made it to Place du 30 Octobre safely. As I walked up the hill on Boulevard Strasbourg, I realized I had to get around the hospital where there would probably be a hypothetical concentration of horror scenes and crazy people trying to steal drugs from the storage. Better be paranoid than in danger. Psychoanalysis is not worth being put away in books. I chose to live it. It was impossible to get any pieces of information from anyone. Most of my friends texted me, telling that they had lost contact with most of our friends and acquaintances. Edouard said he went outside twice the first week they decided to put Dijon in quarantine to get some food and he got into a fight he managed to run away from. I was about to get to his apartment, texted him, asked him if he were still there. No answer. I had to hurry. It was almost sunset. I walked up Rue du Point du Jour, then Rue Henri Joly and all the way up Rue des Planchettes. The scenery was hard to believe. The whole place looked like a ghost town. Down the avenue, ashes were fuming where you would expect to see huge amphitheaters and half of the main building facade fell down on the grass and trees and cars. I could feel my whole body shaking and my blood boiling. What happened there? Who did this? There was no way gangs could have done such a thing. My phone broke the silence. I almost had a heart attack. I answered. 'JM! Run! There are people coming in your direction! RUN!!!' 'Where are you?' 'RUN!!! TO THE GROUND FLOOR!!! NOW!!!' I ran across the avenue as fast as I could and then stopped abruptly. They were here. My friends. Edouard held me in his arms so tight that it hurt. I was speechless. What the hell happened here? Why were they all here? There were chairs and tables everywhere. Some were thrown randomly in front of the doors while others were piled up looking like barricades. Elsa gave me a cup of coffee. Tatiana was sitting on the floor staring at her phone. Florian did not turn his head from his computer. Agathe was fixing a radio. She looked up and smiled. 'We're glad you made it.' 'When did you guys arrive?' I looked around. There were blankets on the floor. Sleeping bags. A kettle. Bowls. Spoons. A knife. A bat. Edouard looked at me and asked me if the group of people he saw followed me. 'I don't think so.' 'How are you?' 'Feeling much better now. I'm glad I can finally see you guys. Downtown, it is so silent that it freaks me out. I don't know where they all left.' 'We heard that they built up more walls to close all the gates around the inner wall. It seems they only left the one located in Lac Kir open.' 'So do you think we're safe here?' 'It's better than downtown and there's a lot of spots where we can hide in case...' He voice shook and he started crying. 'I'm sorry. I haven't slept in days. I can't help it.' 'Don't worry man. We're all here.' 'No we're not,' said Tatiana. Everybody looked at her. Florian stopped typing on his laptop. 'We know Tatiana. But don't worry. I'm sure they're fine.' said Elsa, trying to be as reassuring as possible. 'I meant, at least, we're together.' Edouard put his arm around me and pulled me aside. We went upstairs and sat in an amphitheater.

They have been here for a few days already and Edouard mentioned scary screams that they can hear at night. He barely closed his eyes and spoke quickly. He surely seemed exhausted and stressed out. I asked him if the gangs made it this far for they only have interest in controlling the food rationing. He said that they never showed up here but that we had to leave this place and find a better shelter anyway. They were here two nights ago when the facade of the building fell. He said there was an explosion and that they could hear planes patrolling over the area. They still did not know why they stroke only once but he assumed that the rest of the population outside the walls knew more and disapproved of such a move from the government. He mentioned Tatiana's state of panic and told me what her family said. Apparently, the government justified the quarantine for there were high risks of a rare infectious disease reported by the hospital a few weeks ago. They said people were dying here. They said that the government decided to destroy the whole city. We went back downstairs. Elsa was holding Tatiana in her arms. They were sobbing. I could not believe my eyes. I never would have guessed that such a thing would happen to us. And what was that so-called infectious disease anyway?

It was getting late and Florian and the others already fell asleep. Agathe, Edouard and I decided to stay up all night. 'Do you think it's gonna happen again?' asked Agathe. 'I don't know,' said Edouard 'But we have to be careful. I don't know what this so-called disease is and I don't get it. Why would they keep it secret from the public? Why can't they simply send people to check up on us?' We were tired. Agathe dozed off. Edouard could hardly keep eyes open. It all became so silent when I could hear a crack coming from the end of the hallway. I panicked. I did not want to wake the others. There was another noise coming from the same direction. Was anyone trying to break in? It was pitch dark in here. I decided to go and check this out. The doors were closed but I could feel a cool draft coming from the back. I stopped and looked up and turned around. Suddenly, I could hear someone grunting right behind me. 'JM?' Edouard's voice echoed from the other end of the hallway. 'I'm here!' I turned around and a hand grabbed me, pulling me down. I screamed and all of a sudden, Edouard, Agathe and the others appeared in the hallway pointing their flashlights in my direction. A body was scratching my face and biting my neck. I could hear my friends shout out my name while my vision blurred and my mouth tasted like blood. 

Chapitre Premier

Touch the sun and kiss the rain

It was about midnight when I entered the Sé Bar. As usual I would order a pint of white beer and sit at one end of the counter. I always sat right next to the entrance from where I expected the same young man to spend the night a couple of sits further. The first time I saw him I remembered he was smoking outside. His 'rollies' as he called them made perfect circles as he smoked. I was sitting inside, observing this strange looking guy asking for a cigarette to whoever he was. He entered and ordered a couple of drinks. As the night went on, he kept on drinking cheap rum and started smiling like a child and took a pencil out of his backpack and wrote on a napkin. He stared outside the window pane and contemplated the rain that started pouring on Emile Zola square. That night I waited for him to leave the bar and took the napkin he wrote on after he looked at the rain. This is how I knew who he was. His note said : Touch the sun and kiss the rain. He was alone. I felt funny for a moment because I started smiling the same way the young man did. I kept on seeing him at the Sé Bar and after the departure of the lonely poet, I would take his napkins that he left for dead on the counter. I wondered how he felt when he abandoned those notes. I decided to keep all of them. There was no reason for this young man to write without being read. Reading is a passion. Each word coming out of the unknown is a bracelet one wears in secret. Everybody has a secret. I read the notes that this young man left every night after each rendez-vous. One night, he left a note that said 'Do you like what I write?'. The world started to spin faster and faster. I almost fell from my stool. My soul started to distort itself and my body felt so heavy. I felt guilty but happy at the same time. I hate asking stupid questions to myself. My body speaks for me. I ordered one last drink and walked all night long. I could not help but think about him all the time. It felt like this other guy suddenly attracted me. I looked at my own reflection passing by the shop window of a bakery. Was I smart-looking enough to get to speak to this unknown and strange person? I stopped in the middle of the crossroads in front of the theater and laughed. Who was I to think that his note was addressed to me? The week after, I ordered my third pint feeling my throat twisting inside as if my soul wanted to cry. He was not coming this night. A hand of rain pounded its knuckles hard against the cobblestones of the square. I left the Sé Bar and started walking home. The sky soaked in the Earth which swallowed my soul. I was about to open the front door of my building when I heard 'Hello?' My blood ran once through all my veins. Shaking, I turned around and there he was. 'How are you?' he asked.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lost in syntax

The sun pierced through the shutters and a thin ray cheered up my face. I opened my eyes cautiously as I remembered what happened the night before. I felt a faint as sat up on my bed. Time froze for a moment and my heart felt like it was about to tear my chest apart and break free. I remembered. A strange 'hello' echoed and I remembered. The Sé Bar. The rain. There was a face. I smiled. Where was the rest of it ? I took a shower and remembered. K. something. We smoked weed all night long and talked. What did we talk about ? I drank my tea and remembered. We had sex. I remembered we talked all night long. I remembered the ecstasy. I was walking home and he was following me. We laughed when he told me he saw me laughing in front of the theater. I felt so stupid and then he kissed me. He said he felt lonely. I said I needed a little company. We had sex.

I left my apartment and on the door there was a note. I started to cry. I felt so terrible for those words were not for me. Could this scattered memory of mine deny the wonderful night we spent. I could not even remember his name. Those words. This unknown handwriting. What did I say or do that could leave such an impression on this stranger's mind ?

I have a smile curled up on my back. I can feel its gentle breathe. It tickles. I tremble with pleasure. I have a smile in my bed. I tornado it in my arms. It happinesses me. I miss it. I love it when its lips break through. It earlobes me and I belly it. We for-some-timed ourselves. I want it eternity. I pagan it . It divines me. I bird it. It flies me. It wings me, I angel it. It smiles to me and I gentle kiss it. I shyly breeze it. It hurricanes me. I miss it. I praise it. It heartbeats me. I heart-attacked it. It mouth-to-mouth me. I kissed him. We fire!

Karl. His name was Karl.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Oh victory !

I spent the morning in my apartment trying to realize what this feeling was. I was jet-lagged with my body and soul. I could not find the balance and could not stand it any longer. So I went outside again. It was sunny and the world seemed at peace. An old lady smiled, walking her dog. The dog smiled to the old lady. I smiled and felt lucky to be such a privileged witness. Life was good outside. I spent most of the afternoon at a café, drinking wine and eating a sandwich for both my lunch and dinner. I read the rage of Arthur's bittersweet poetry. I felt like this day was kind to me. The sun slowly went down and the shadow of François Rude square spread its chilly gentle breeze over the fountain, forcing its statue to sleep. Then came a strange sensation. A smack in the face. A violent outburst. Where should I go then ? I stopped thinking for my feet already knew where to go. I could not keep on hiding inside and the sweetness of this day for sure was foreshadowing the end of it. Karl was waiting for me. On my way to the Sé Bar, I closed my eyes for a little while and tried to picture the best place to be.

My eyes fixed the sky and it felt nice. The dark blue of what is bigger than what a soul could dive in cheered up the wind. My soul so big. My needs so pure. My smile bigger than this universea. Every single invisible footstep I made wondered how it felt like being as high as the clouds and I finally understood. Wisdom and peace of mind were both where extremes meet. In the middle. In between. A perfect harmony balanced between the ground and the sky. I opened my eyes and stared at what was in between. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No matter how hard the rain might pour. It would never fill up what is in between – the safe zone of the soul. Oh my soul! You are flying where your feet cannot walk. Oh my body! You are resting under a tree, watching bees and butterflies fighting for daisies. Your smile and your existence in between proves once more that even what can fly struggles for freedom. Oh victory! I found it! My peace of mind! Oh victory! My body now gazes at my soul bigger than the sky embracing the Earth, stretching, kissing the sky. Somewhere in Dijon, someone finally felt peaceful. I opened my eyes in front of the Sé Bar and there he was.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Not really, no.”

He smiled and kissed me on the cheek. 'How are you man?' he asked. All my fears vanished. I switched off my emotions, ready to face the stranger named Karl. 'I'm fine. How about you?' And it went on and on for a couple of hours. He told me how handsome I looked and I told him how beautifully he writes. When I asked him 'How do you write?', he simply answered 'Sometimes, I just can't help but express how I feel and shit. I just put it down on paper and let it go.' I remained silent for a short while and then he asked me 'Do you write?'. He ordered two pints of white beers .Me 'Only in my head. I cannot find a way to put down words on the paper.'

'Have you tried?' he asked. Me 'Not really, no.'

'How do you know then?'

'Dunno. I feel like I can't express words properly on the paper.'

'Take this.' He handed a pen he took from his backpack. 'Could we have a napkin please?' he asked to the waitress. 'And there you go! What's in your mind. Be honest like you were yesterday.'

'About that. I'm afraid I passed out the other night. I'm sorry for what I did.'

'You're sorry for what you did, huh?' he looked funny for he smiled but when he answered he was somehow serious. 'Well I guess we smoked way too much. I should be the one to feel sorry. I literally followed you until you were home. In my defense, I was drunk and the waitress told me you were taking my napkins and that you read them. I guess I was curious. That's all. So there's no need for you to apologize or whatever.'

'Ok. I guess you're right.' Then he laughed and went on. 'So. What's on your mind.'

'No don't do that. I don't know how to write.'

'Oh shut up! You know how to write. You just don't know what to write about.'

'That's the problem. What do you want me to write about?'

'Anything. Absolutely anything! One day I wrote about a goldfish that committed suicide.'

'You're kidding!'

'No! Its name was George.'

'George the Goldfish?'

'That's right! Now stop asking questions you already know the answer and tell me what you want to write about.'

'I really don't know. Maybe not tonight. I'm still tired from last night.'

'Yes you are.'

'I'm not joking. I feel more like walking home.'

'Oh I see. I'm sorry if I'm bothering you.'

'No you're not; It's just that I really am tired and I don't feel like being out tonight. I should go home. I spent the whole day at a café.'

'What did you do?'

'I read poetry and then I came here.'

'I see... well do you want me to come over your place? We may talk for a while and then I'll leave you alone.'

'Or we can do that too. I don't feel like sitting here all night.'

'Shall we go ? Beers are on me. I insist. It's my way to apologize for following you last night.' I laughed. He paid and then we went out.

The Great Revelation

Last night I went on campus. I climbed the emergency ladder from outside the tallest building and cling to the very last antenna from the top of which I wish my mind could let go off this past and I prayed in despair and I cried in vain. Some episodes from random patches of memory need to stay in and haunt your soul until the very last drop of blood pulsing and gushing through your entire body is carried away up to your brain, blown across your dried flesh making your eyes burst into flames -- flames of redemption and forgiveness every single one of us would die for to shed some clear liquid light through eyes so dark contemplating over one's own very existence from outside one's own existence. 

"This is the Great Revelation imploding within each and single one of the electric particles that weave the fabric of a small short breaths of life to dive into life itself to explore its mysteries. Once you get you're about to eventually explode into billions of cocoons and galaxies you wait for them to tear themselves from the inside out to crave for even more expansions. Once one tried the experience, one wants some more."

From the miserable suicidal top of the city, observing how quiet and chill my time at the university was. I closed my eyes and wished for the wind to caress my cheek and push hard into oblivion, into the nothingness of an act so demanded and yet out of control. I said "Let go!" and yelled "Touch the sun and kiss the rain!" I mumbled and smiled at me saying "My eyed open wisdom..."

That night I let go off my fears and uncertainty. I shared my secrets with the universe and made myself a promise. "Time to move on. Take the leap and take your own destiny into your hands. Move on!"

So they say...

Eyes tickling, stuck on the window of the bus, he wondered if someone was thinking of him at the very same time he was fascinated by the falling snow, sublimed under the orange light of lampposts. Then in the streets, too clumsy to contemplate the hidden architectural treasures sitting on rooftops, he'd watch his feet passing one ahead of the other all the way to his place where he'd sit for hours on his sad armchair trying not to think how sad it is to fancy intentions on people's many faces. He'd go blind in the dark, realizing the sun was already down and brightened up the room for a second when he lit his cigarette. This day was nothing but a whirling chain of cryptic sensations he could not attribute words to. One more day of nothing in his life of nothingness... "How nothing!" he says to him. "Now let's try get some shit done and read his journals... she might have an idea of how this day should end for the many characters he invented..." ; although he was not sure how to put words he read and words of imagination altogether ; maybe there is no way to write anything based on facts... on history... what if He was right ? His right hand would be tempted to say that eternity and frozen time is bullshit while his left hand argued with it and claimed to remain silent and focus on his reading... "The problem is there's no such thing as reading without associating yourself with them characters and them stories and..."

Patches from Fragments

 [When realizing everything you know is less than everything you have to learn -- a striking and thriving ambition growing inside your whole integrity as a holy ghost seeking Time & Space anywhere and anytime -- you fall asleep with waking nightmares.]

[My thoughts can only expand to reach dark and bright extremes these days. My soul speaks words of light while my body cling to the pain of days that never change. I need an adventure outside of life to seek Life itself. The only way to freedom is through everyday life restraints and flaws. I need to understand what impulse my heart gets when my blood materialize into armies shouldering their way through my veins. I need to feel my body completely and concentrate to catch a glimpse of reality.]

[Ambition is tricky. You sleepwalk with sounds emanating from your dried lips in the middle of the night after the cathedral's bells chimed. You whisper words unknown to any living creature. You mumble and groan and thunder your secrets to yourself with a frustration never felt before. Whether you find a way to shape your thoughts and words and life or not, you can't help but withdraw yourself from the outside world. The words confined in your head you call soul shrink and run away from you. What if writing was a mistake? What if the solution could not be spoken until I find my target. I cannot believe in my writing with no hunting like images but I lack the maturity and the manhood to express myself the way I want people to see me the way I am. I let the masks fall.]

[It seems a bit of an answer is writing itself, yet, without me willing to let it free – even for me to understand the bits and pieces set free outside my own head. It feels like a neverending symphony with cords vibrating and burning under arches too heavy to let go off the tempo of a majestic pulse. It's all about someone's heart beating.]

Sole Di Mezzanotte

I'm drunk so I don't really know where this is going... As you may know if you're paying attention to international news these days, northern France is under the snow and my hometown is right in the middle of the freezing weather. I decided to open the bottle of whiskey friends of my parents' offered to me for Christmas and it feels like I do enjoy the addiction to (or at least the occasional) intoxication... If you got the time to read the brief news I provided to you a couple of days ago, my life is suspended until this coming September. so I decided to stop my studies for if I continued I swear you would have gotten no news from me for I would have killed myself for so much disappointment with myself and the way people treated me at the university and especially the way my crooked yet inspired mind see the world... I do feel like I have a long life ahead of me and so many stories waiting deep down to be told in a language worth fighting against to discover these very crooked visions of mine. The more I read literary criticism, the less I see a point in defining literature... Lemme explain... Regarding, writing, reading, the relationship between the two and the way I picture myself in the middle of this endless fight for truth through art, I can't figure out how to bridge over the world of the one who studies things with a stone instead of a heart and the world of passion and fascination... I can't rely on my Cartesian spirit any more (provided that I ever had any straight way of thinking and seeing and studying things... I have been reading this book for over a month now entitled "Literary Space" by Maurice Blanchot and I can't help but feel estranged from the world of those who think straight and intellectuals.

All in all, I don't think I am made to understand things anymore but I am ready to give in my emotions to feel the world and embrace my own way of telling what I won't ever have the condescension to call 'truth'... In the book I just mentioned I felt betrayed somehow by my favorite French theorist... He gave up to believing that art is meant to be bound to death and solitude by delineating both willing death and letting it come to you and both being reluctant to build a life with any one but yourself thus rejecting any kind of closeness and living a life with caring people and people who hate you around you... He draws an apology of solitude and death through suicide as of those were serving art for art yet questioning the very existence of Literature itself... I tried to hold on to what I could relate to but I could not help but feel awfully way away from this argumentation. And then I started to wander back in where no one could ever dream of walking, at the very back of my expanding brains where I get lost way too often and where I am the only to get the rules of places there where no human spirit could wander unless he or she would turn into a void which no words would describe I myself would feel like to flee my own head with no guilt at all except maybe the weird kind of pain one feels when he or she knows that he or she is wrong to let someone be hit or raped and all of those things you'd let anyone endure just because you are too proud to be alive to get to understand what it really means to be ok even if you're wrong... I know I do sound strange but on the other hand, I realize I can't think straight and I have to build my own world through words by means of journals or novels or plays or anything that could relate to art so that one day, someone would know what I mean when I say that there is nothing but the power "commitment" at any level worth being fought for down on earth...

I evolve in life with no God, no proof of any god of any kind except the one I am... For there is no God, I could only be my own through my own eyes and touch and hearing and all... I create the world as I feel it as I disagree with it. I can't agree with anything since I am the one making any of my feeling real. I refuse standards at all costs and embrace madness and self-destruction by letting FREEDOM go through my entire being. I want freedom at all cost and I refuse any dictatorship such as religions, laws and universities... the three of them define exactly what it means to belong to the common of people... I mean, that if you don't belong to the elite of intellectuals, politicians and theological bullshits, you are nothing but something under anything that would ever get the grip of any knowledge to get the chance to free yourself... I walk in the streets and observe people anywhere I go and realize we are puppets made by wrongly motivated societies to perpetuate the species of the human race. It is a whole machinery meant to please the top of those who live with power while those who are meant to crawl down in dirt are also meant to make the elite believe that it is meant to be this way. Oh how I wish I could not sound crazy right now for I do realize that my words and ideas look like those of a kid refusing any king of rules and realities BUT it IS FREEDOM I am craving for...

More on that later.

Serial Killer Don't Mind Falling In Love . . . (to be continued)

" I should have killed us both. I knew it was impossible to survive but I was wrong. Our souls are better than that. I could guess and feel that damned bus shrieking, imploding and sparkling to eventually explode into billions of shattered naked galaxies which atoms solidified the entire frozen trail of rainbow-tears from my eyes and heart and orphan arms to footsteps of yours tracing back up to your own eyes and soul and smiles all erased for ever.

" We knew and experienced Death in that goodbye. Yet our chain of prisms linking us sometimes vibrates from your side of the world while on mine life again rises proudly and I can feel your presence and there I am on the other side of the screen, reborn from Time and Space, smiling with a kind heart burning up in my chest that your digital wires and fingers would like to taste and electrify. I can feel it resonating and beeping from where I cannot savor you.

" It's a circle of mad self-inflicted thoughts I am entrapped in since the day we split up and bound until death became your friend and enemy. I survived with arms ravished. Setting foot on unknown streets to fear and conquer and loath squatting in the corner of somewhere not appropriate, I kiss my wounded feet. Where can I go now? Whistling with the wind blowing through the door, on my back I think of you every second.

" How many never ending hours until my heart would stop beating under such pain and insatiable blood boiling in the mud of an imaginary dreamworld waiting in its cocoon where we would fit inside together.

" Touch the sun and kiss the rain.

" Remain that cold tomb rotting in vain without me.

" Goodbye my love. "

If it hadn't been for love, I would not be as crazy as I am today. Haha-Haha!

*This Hell of a spell

It's Already Gone

You are dreaming -- palm trees and big ants -- while I think of you, sleepwalking --  our mirror like iris reflected upon our expanded yet convergent looks and smiles sparkling, billowing, puffing inside my soft consumed brains. I felt your arms around my armpits, lifting me up and high on yours knees around my ankles. My oath goes 'I'll be your slave on which you shall rely on until death do us part.' You might be as far as it seems but I can feel your presence. My smile broadened to such extremes it hurt. 'It's already gone. Time bends to do as I say and I say "present!"! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!' I lost it. Where is it? I want my smile back! Give it to me! No!

The bus stole it from me. You were in there. You died in there! The last time I saw you,  my whole being died and I'm still dealing with it today. I can't even possibly think of any means to describe it. I wish I could forget things so badly because it hurt so much.

On the plane, on my way back, I cried literally my heart out! I died on wine to forget my home friends were already in my arms -- strangers, enemies and new reasons to become even more paranoid in a world that I could not belong to any more. I lied to you and I still do when I tell you I'm fine. My arms and soul beg you to come back to me to make me feel the energy of life again. We were God! We could be anything. We were invincible and handsome. Our past life is cursed and revive once a year in flesh and flames chained to the ultimate tablet on which it says 'You're broken now!' in terrible gold capital letters to die again yet conscious enough to feel the pain to come again.