What matters is the truth.
We are, you and I, from the same dream as others are from the same country, I will never say from the same family.
Our strength is that we don't owe anyone anything. At any time we can leave this world, without regret, without drama. I've spent my whole life getting used to the idea of this voluntary departure. My death, I carry it within me, in the buttonhole. The rest is hustle and bustle so as not to disappoint the weather.
She is special in society and no one cares how or with which ghost she spends her nights. We then lend her an imaginary life where she would be incestuous and homosexual, card-drawer and spell-caster, perverse and monstrous.
Being cheerful already meant changing your face, changing your body, learning new gestures and walking flexibly.
You will see, in my house the words fall like drops of acid.
From time to time I encountered people on my path who reacted violently to my presence, to an attitude or to a gesture. I said to myself then that we must be of the same caliber, that our sensibilities were woven by the same fibers. I didn't hold it against them. I walked away in silence with the conviction that our eyes would meet again in the same momentum.
There are people who, in order to live, draw their energy from hatred. You will often see them roaming around at dusk around a dead water lake, where rats precede them to dump their poison. We can say to ourselves that it is the misfortune that they expel to purify themselves, in truth they are carriers of negative charges and we need to spend them on others before they lead to their own paralysis, then death. . Assise must have died a victim of its own will to harm.
There are people who scream when they threaten. Anger disturbs their feelings. There are others who speak quietly and what they say reaches you more.
I knew that by disappearing, I was leaving behind me enough to feed the most extravagant tales. But, as my life is not a tale, I wanted to set the record straight and tell you the secret kept under a black stone in a house with high walls at the end of an alley closed by seven doors.
I had spent my adolescence pushing aside desire with all my might. I was trapped but I was getting enough benefit from this situation. I ended up no longer thinking about desire. I was not entitled to it. I was content with my delusional dreams, peopled with phalluses, bodies of ephebes and vulgar banquets.
I touched my breasts. They were slowly emerging. I opened my blouse to offer them to the morning wind, a small beneficial wind that caressed them. I had goose bumps and the tips were hardening. The wind blew through my body from top to bottom. My blouse swelled, I let go of my hair. They weren't very long but the wind was doing them good. I walked barefoot without knowing where I was going. A mad desire came over me: I took off my saroual and then my panties to please the wind, to please myself and feel the light and cold hand of this morning breeze pass over my stomach and awaken my senses.
I fell like bad rain, the one you don't expect, the one you fear because it rots the seeds
Time is what we are. It is on our face, in our silences, in our waiting. We deserve the time of patience and of the days when nothing happens.
I closed my eyes. Not to see. So as not to hear. And especially so as not to have to speak. What was happening in me had to stay in me. not show through. Because there was nothing to say or there was so much to say, to reveal and to denounce.
So the pact was sealed! The woman could only nod. She obeyed her husband, as usual, but this time felt concerned by a common action. She was finally in a bond with her husband. His life was going to have meaning; she was embarked in the ship of the enigma which was going to sail on distant and unsuspected seas.
The sacred night - “Remember! I was a child with a troubled and vacillating identity. I was a daughter masked by the will of a father who felt diminished, humiliated because he had not had a son. As you know, I was that son he dreamed of.
The rest, some of you know; the others have heard bits and pieces of it here and there. Those who dared to tell the story of this child of sand and wind had some trouble: some suffered from amnesia; others almost lost their souls. We told you stories. They are not really mine. Even locked up and isolated, the news reached me. I was neither surprised nor confused. I knew that by disappearing I was leaving behind me enough to feed the most extravagant tales. But, as my life is not a tale, I wanted to set the record straight and give you the secret kept under a black stone in a house with high walls at the end of an alley closed by seven doors.
Every now and then I have weird ideas. It's my way of being nervous.
My eyes are dry, he tells me, but I cry profusely inside.
Your story is a series of doors that open onto white territories and spinning labyrinths.
The truth is closer to the shadow than to the tree that gives that shadow.
You can forget a face, but you can't quite erase from your memory the warmth of an emotion, the sweetness of a gesture, the sound of a tender voice.
Remember! I was a child with a troubled and vacillating identity. I was a daughter masked by the will of a father who felt diminished, humiliated because he had not had a son. As you know, I was that son he dreamed of. The rest, some of you know; the others have heard bits and pieces of it here and there. Those who dared to tell the story of this child of sand and wind had some trouble: some suffered from amnesia; others almost lost their souls. But as my life is not a tale, I wanted to set the record straight and tell you the secret kept under a black stone in a house with high walls at the end of an alley closed by seven doors "