And what else would I want to write about myself…

I would have wanted to write about all kinds of ages that I have gone through so far.

About the thoughts leaked and overlooked or that I passed by without realizing it.

About what brings me closer or separates me from me, or… maybe about what will really follow.

I would have wanted to write about the inability to talk about myself, about the stubbornness to go against the tide, knowing that at the end of the day a kind of…crystallization awaits me.

About the humiliation of not knowing who I am and what I will become…or about the horror of not knowing who I am.

About the patience with which I am given to share the waters, so much is said about me.

And sometimes I tend to think that I am looking at myself in the mirror just like a cat sitting on its perch.

I look at myself and it’s like I’m fine like this.

We are now two in the picture…the power is growing.

I am grateful for my face.

Then I forget.

Wandering Saharas, spiders and fog looking for I don’t even know what.

I have a thousand senses.

I irradiate.

Visions cross my mind for which I am not prepared.

I stop out of the way and break into pieces that I collect later. I’m remodeling.

And suddenly things will happen to me that I have experienced before.

I meet and stop emotions.

I melt under the arid summer sun.

I’m going back and heading towards a whole autumn that is to come.

And I hug her.

About me, me who is getting ready, rushing towards a deserted savannah.

About the enthusiasm and swagger with which I went through so many phases of naivety, disintegration, anger at two money, pride…

About the huge and unknown force that I felt so many times through a sudden desire to go further on a deserted road, endless days and nights…


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