All these addictions that is dragging.
Everyone needs something, without which it would feel as helpless, exposed, caught off guard. Incredibly vulnerable and half dead already. Everyone. Some are dependent on their propensity to proclaim everywhere they depend on anything or anyone. And then there 's those who are dependent on their nakedness, their freedom and detachment. Their independence.
I pride myself of being able to pass people when I see fit, and it is, after all, quite true. But there is not a matter to brag too much because it's not people I'm addicted but good things. Stuff in, and out of my head.
If I had to spend a day without perfume, cigarettes, alcohol and music, I'd stay in bed.
If I had to spend a day without a bed ... I would need a lot of alcohol.
I often get from the grocer to buy a pack of American blonde in anticipation of tomorrow, yet I still have a dozen, but I'd rather not be caught short, I feel reassured. And yet be caught short, it what happens to everything else.
The administrative stuff, for example.
Never, ever, I paid an electricity bill before the recorded voice will call me and offer me on my answering machine:
"If you have not yet paid the invoice: type 1. If you paid this bill since the recall that we sent you by mail: type 2. If you do not care ... "
the absence of 3, still, I type 2.
course I have not paid yet, but I tell myself that I calm while waiting for the wolves that check, and it turns out that it works. They not screaming over the dead, and when I finally decided to send the due, it goes like a letter in the mail.
I am yet incredibly dependent on it, EDF. Yes, but their doses do send me any level of any sky. It passes over me. Or below. From
Monoi I put in my hair. Books I'm reading. Words that I write. This ordimini who I mean everything. Rings that my fingers are accustomed and which, when I undress, roam between them, rubbing each other as to recreate the presence, keep warm, no longer feel abandoned.
There's a vacuum, all the time, with the loss patterns and the small insignificant things that make my life a great example of life. The self-mockery, too, I'm hooked. Badly.
But let us be clear, though undeniably range of amenities on the possession and collection of memories, I am not only materialistic, eh. I depend too much on the idea of fantasy and condoms.
How to be free then.
Should we really get rid of absolutely everything? What value would the fun? Should we get rid of the fun too ? We're addicted? Is what I am making a statement of philosophy test?
It circulates in bars, cinemas. It stirs the entry stores at this time balances. Theaters tremble applause. Windows beneath the orgasms. Children wriggling in front of the excitement of candy stolen. Me in the middle a little bit of everything here and the rest.
Yesterday, on the line 11 between City Hall and Republic, I failed to subscribe to new friends. A bottle of soda and caloric walked around in the car at our feet. Empty, according to pitching movements of the wheels on the rails and, sitting on the folding core, I threw the ball without realizing it, lifting her legs to let her dance where she wanted. My neighbor across the street followed by reflex, then my left also and finally, 4 ° fellow, exiled from the other side similarly. The party began. We will prêtions as seriously as enthusiasm kid and I suddenly felt the air change in odor. I looked up and discovered, in the face, the face of the girl bent under the effect of laughter. Instinctively, I checked my left that he, too, began to seriously warp. It rose from my toes and once reached the solar plexus, through the mouth, I exploded with a burst that my mother would have called "laughing the summer of 1985, destroying sandcastles .
The 4th has always focused first saw the bottle come up against one of our feet, our heads and laughing. With all it has predictable and obvious, it must be confessed that, without surprise or turnaround, the guy decided to join our adventure had corkscrew and also dry.
We were there, every 4 watching us without us too, because of the tears that the power of laughter was born, to whine and hit our thighs, accompanied test sentences stifled by a new chuckle. It lasted 3 stations.
For those who are not Parisian, if it exists-3 stations, it gives us a good 3 minutes 50 with 3 minutes 50 seconds of movement and stop everything. Stops during which new heads and landed amazed at the spectacle. The other passengers ended up smiling too, among them, like parents touched by the joy of their little rascals. Of course, all this scenery did fuel the hiccups and abdominal contractions. And then one of us dropped in a dying breath "I can again" which seemed entirely truthful in relation to the mid-recumbent position mid seat that his body had passed. That has stopped completely and we finish pushed us to do the same.
The term "die laughing" takes its meaning several times a year, rarely true, but then, you know you could actually stay there as the breath we lack the stomach and tears us apart, not to mention burning cheeks , eyes that cry, the heart and rickety picnic while the head that carries all it admits it has absolutely no control of the situation, for once. It
ny'avait virtually nothing really funny, nothing funny at this point anyway, but, quite simply, we laughed our laughter, we were pleased with our joy among us, unknown. Happiness fed the hungry monster of "more happiness" and it would have lasted if he had not always been that one of us goes down to get to grief.
There it real, fun, long thought by my doctrine. There it was really true. It's palpable, living in the veins. How to get rid if one feels a prisoner of the feeling it gives us. How to be free, without being ascetic, austere hermit. How can depend on no satisfaction and still be happy, that's what I wonder.
And, yes, of course, some enchanted assail us welfare when he happens to be saying anything definite, it attacks us in the street, without warning, without reason. We say "duh, well, why this sudden lightness?" But it's always
because it just fine, and it is not in overdraft, besides if you think about it, a young man has just smile battery when the breeze wanders between our shoulders, and all that s 'crony admirably well with this song as we love our own mother, who has not, moreover health problems, and whose words do not come out of our heads since we left the bed where, in fact , still sleeping man with arms the most comfortable of the earth.
Well, what I said. Fun, always, satisfaction, delicacies, the kiss and carelessness. Always. Imperceptibly small joys accumulated delude us and make us believe in the wonder and magic of life, like what happiness would walk down the street and suddenly throw his sights on us. Nothing is further from the truth. The drawers are filled with air by nothing open at once, without being decided. There's no magic, there's just supplies in stock for addicts. That's it.
And cats who move mountains to get to petting under his chin they season it with a purr explicit. The hands of lovers who travel miles to finally find the tissue and skin squealing fun. The cinephile penniless, who cheats, returned by the exit, and feels the red velvet settle under him while the trailers illuminate his eager face. The rapist who happens to enjoy that when a woman resists it and looking to spend his next prey with onset of erection. The little old lady who hides UHT milk cartons under the dresser the bedroom of the nursing home and whose heart beats, despite medication, when in darkness and silence, she comes out of hiding. So many people who, because they know they will die, no longer worry about how, and fill the time separating them from the funeral small pleasures, tiny defects or very large crap. So many people who run the earth under their feet, their no wolves trying not to get caught, as many people without children who would be an ordinary underground public transit and living better than nothing a highway tunnel to the uterus where, supposedly, the light we offer the best orgasms. Yes, but if we do not known before ...?
If I can keep the smiles of strangers, eyes of friends and kisses on the neck of love, then I am willing to give up perfume, books and alcohol. But
, fragrance and alcohol free, do I have friends there, lovers? Strangers will they always want to compliment me on the street, if they also deprive themselves of alcohol? Lovers will they always kind to me unless I read what I read? Friends will be friends if they no longer tells me or my love or my books and no drunken stranger comes to interrupt us to talk about my perfume?
me I could easily look at it all night.
is overlooked from what I am most certainly subject: inside my head and my solitude. It's pretentious, a little. That's okay.
Someone told me one day, or perhaps Was it a night - to paraphrase another, "neither god nor master . He did not say I really care about me, personally, in the eye and he has told everyone and then I heard it straight in my head. I was basically agree on this sequence of words that succeeded in synthesizing a series of ideas long mine.
Neither god nor master
, okay. But pleasure, I am the slave. And it's my freedom, all things considered, since pleasure is ultimately what everyone is resigned to giving up.
And if it had an epitaph then, that "Laughter had his skin " trumps all others.
-maispastrop-
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