Archives mensuelles de septembre, 2011

This post has been inspired by the gorgeous Miss Mary Max and her hosting the Self-Discovery, Word by Word series, September edition. This month’s theme, Enough, has always made me struggle enough, as the following text perspires. But being able to write about a struggle is, to me, taking one step forward in this long run that is life.

Enough is enough.

Or, as it seems, until I say it is. Enough can be a never-ending race if I call it so but don’t call stop.

Too often I find my mind located in my foot, in motion or suspension, waiting to crush a handful of pebbles. But not yet, though; these pebbles are hopes of not being squeezed by a single sole. Yet, yet again, they are going to be trampled on as my mind wanders to my other foot in a flash.

The stamping must go on. The race must be won. One sole, sometimes two, moving in accordance but never in the present.

Eyes watching back, back watching eyes. Whose back? A better back, the best one, running too fast but wait, no, I’m gonna catch it up and then with everything else.

Catch back. Catch up. Catch in every possible direction until you find something solid, sturdy, impossible to crush.

Pebbles are weak. The ground is malleable. The sky, leaky.

My inner runner is not able to be weak. But I have been tramping on her, and I’ll keep stamping until her body is mashed enough.

And as I’ve reached the soft end of the spectrum, I’ll run back to the harsh one, as fast as I can, as if « enough » couldn’t last more than a half second.

Enough is never enough. An end is never its opposite. And rarely is enough seen in pain. Maybe it is just running away from it.

And I’ll keep on running, beating many more enoughs, learning new limits and bumping back in them.

Before we were even able to pronounce the three consonants in « next », we could, and would, say « neck ».

We were kids playing hard games, me-first-and-I-am-gonna-be-the-doctor-not-you games. The kind of games where one could be head and tail altogether, but never any lower than the top.

We were playing each in our own head, apparently sharing a part of our world but sharing it with whom I have no idea because no-one was really listening. Sharing apart, we were.

On one of those fog-clear days, I wipe myself off the world and think, « Aren’t we all kids building up our own stories and floors out of blocks? Aren’t we just blocking ourselves from the « nexts »: The person next to us, the next person who comes, the next opportunities that come in the shape of pains in the neck? »

Oftentimes I feel I am building my own next steps. I have been locking myself away, sleeping in my blog, living just what my head told me to.

We’ve been wrapped in our games, as presents to the next ones. Our own worlds pile up under trees, and no matter how far their contents is spread, they remain secrets.

Short is the path between a consonant and none. Short is the pat between two consonants.

As short as a lifetime, maybe.

Pas tant, mais ça va vite. La pluie, les jours, les éléments de ma vie se déchainent au même train où les mots s’enchainent en suites de poèmes désarticulés.

On s’accroche en dedans comme en dehors de la voiture, les fesses adhérant à la chaleur qui reste. On lit une pancarte à l’envers comme si c’était une page tournée. On fricote avec l’imprévu, le temporaire, la saute d’humeur.

Comment ne pas aimer cette sphate qu’on ne fait qu’effleurer, symbole de tant de phases et strates de vie aplanies?

Le toit s’ouvrira bientôt au lancement de milliers de pages qui me collent à la peau. Et on roulera toujours, en quête de soleil, de sommeil et de vacances. Jamais l’un sans les trois.

Pendant que la FM rappelle à soi la jeunesse qu’il reste, la vie tonitrue dans la voiture en nage. On y arrivera…

… tout en se faisant doucement berner par le bruit de la vitesse. Étourdi, on ne remarquera pas que son espoir de trophée de course a été emporté par la berline japonaise, indépassable.

Inpensable, mais on s’est fait rouler, tout de même.

Suivre

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