The gallimaufry approach to life

Patience  Les genoux écorchés,  Douleur redoublant la frénésie Grimper, glisser, le paroi suintant  Je m'agrippe à la surface,  À me plier les ongles à l envers. Gouttelettes de sang nourrissent la terre de mon ame. J ai cherché en vain des signes, des mots.  Le néant. Tout m'echappe, vol en eclats,  me transperce, laissant trace sur trace. Traquer l absolu, à l infini et finir par quoi ? Pour quoi ? Pour qui? Peux tu sentir le sel de mes larmes ? Patience, j'apprends encore à apprehender mes peurs et mes infaillibles failles  Mes faiblesses et fortitudes. Encore un peu De patience.

Dear soulmate, I know you go through darkness, crippled, crumpled, crucified by the past; what could have been, what is not, what one expected you to be; by a future full of the unknown, eschatological fragments which tear you up, rip you apart, yet you cannot bear that burden alone. I'm afraid of the dark, but i promise to kiss the wounds in your heart, the infinite scars in your soul. I've told you before, I have strength inside me which enables me to go beyond the boundaries. If you take my hand, wholly trust me, I can confront that cliff with you, arms around your waist, head against your trembling back. Face the openness, my arms wrapped around you, while you absorb the beauty of feeling moved by something which is beyond your control. The spray from the waves crashing below send droplets of sea salt upon your skin, a reminder that you feel, that you are. Salt of the earth, salt of the soul. When we are both surrounded by that darkness, we will grip each other, cla...

A house, in the Cantal, there we stood, my brother and I, the two of us, inseparable. Upon visiting our uncle, a man of science and words, ophthalmologist by design, poet by desire, we would make our way to his study, a room where every surface, floors, walls, books, was permeated by the shadows of time. The latter had drawn us here to begin with. Their spines facing outwards, revealing the bare minimum, heightening our curiosity. What would lie within? What stories would unfold, be embedded in the depths of our minds?  Who would we be after we had encountered the words?  We take our seats, as always next to each other, our feet skimming the floor. We wait with bated breath, blinking in the shadows of knowledge. Unhurried, my uncle lays down his fountain pen, the one with which he pens his lines, then, focusing his gaze first upon my brother, then upon me, he bores through irises into my mind and soul. He knows. He rises. He runs his fingers down each spine one after the o...