I have no vision, no point of view, just a feeling. I am suspended in a time that passes too fast. Motionless, stopped.
I look through the bay window.
Outside explodes a new spring. The horses come and go, the dog waits
and gets bored.

I write as oil is poured on the ashes in the hope of rekindling an
uncertain flame, of taking me into the game, of catching fire and thus
plunging, wildfire, into the great Acheron of writing.
Today, it rains, spring is dull, the grass, still short but greasy , sip ,
saturated with an almost fluorescent green.
My thoughts wander and curl lazily in this idle early afternoon.
I let myself be guided by the words that, one by one, appear on the
screen. Useless.

Maybe someone will read them and then forget about them.
Lives go like this, in vain. We mix our lives with others. We embrace, we
separate without much more reason than what grows grass from the
meadows and then soon, stroll.
I am aware of the melancholy of my sentences, yet I feel in me, deep,
absurd, a laugh that goes up to each of my breaths.
Something in me laughs and laughs, sees clearly and accepts, sings and
breathes, at the end.

I received messages from Algeria. It was the feast of Eid el Fitr.
Enjoy the party !

I have no religion and my rejoycing is also intimate and unexplained.

I feel God all around, everywhere, indifferent.

I responded to the messages. I felt exiled. In exile from two homelands.

Where did I find myself?

Probably here, in the blank of the page that is gradually filling up.

So that’s a whole man and a life of few. We write down as they come the
few words we can and then, certainly, we sign, with our last breath.

It stopped raining.

I’m looking out again.

I look to the whole world.