Another sun sets, another day dies, and silence once again lays its numb quietness on the broken landscapes around me. Have you seen the mighty canyons ? Have you walked upon the graceful foothills below the mountain range ? I haven’t.
Desperate hope had kept me aloft for countless days as I stubbornly circled your house, my eyes seeking a glimpse of yours, but now I realize not only are you no longer there (where the fuck have you gone ? why have you left ? please don’t tell me), but your whole house has vanished as well.
What’s left now ? The old tree, of course – older, wiser, and still stupid as fuck – but there is something new. A disturbing monument now rises where your house once stood – a mirror, forty feet tall and flawlessly polished. As I peek into it, I can see the eyes of a jaded bird (is he my reflection, or am I his?).
It is dark now. Shafts of menacing clouds seal away the timid moonlight as the remaining handful of sun rays hurriedly dash for cover; even the fireflies have long given up their right to disturb the night in these tired wastelands.
Yet the mirror shines. I can see my eyes in it. They are dark, like the opaque skies above, tainted with angry resignation and a hundred silent failures – yet there is a faint glimmer, a tiny flash of light illuminating the otherwise gloomy orbs.
And so I lay in the dark, alone and sad – but a gentle voice (is it yours?) keeps whispering in my ear :
Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.
Étienne Després wonders what's going on. Previous articles : Avenir de Pochour, Rapport annuel Pochour.com and Égarements nostalgiques. See every article by Étienne Després