28 Oct 2006


'Et si tu crois que c`est fini
C`est juste une pause, un répit
Après les dangers

Et si tu crois que je t`oublie
Ouvre ton corps aux vents de la nuit
Ferme les yeux'

Garou never cease to impress me with his songs. Love that voice. 'Sous le vent'.

Indeed, 'sous le vent', je survis. Réellement, je meurs.

'Sous le vent', there rests a bundle of strangled, untamed, forever hidden, marinated, very raw and wild water. When the ebb season comes in, it attempts- so openly, hopefully and optimistically- carve its way in its contained space. Peak here and there. Open new lands. Extend and expand itself into new soil. Sneak into new sand. Penetrate and sink palyfulnessly into an island. Reveal its shiny, sparkling nature. Full of hope and longing to fill the island of its choice and find this little seed that is awaiting its danggling, dancing drops. So close to reaching that, the tide comes in. Pulling the water back, before reaching its goal. Leaving the island thirsty. The seed unwatered. The very core of the water dry. More thirsty. Forcing the water to be confined again. In the dark little cave. Marinated again. Like the bottle of wine. The longer it stays unopened, the more expensive it becomes. With one difference, the water becomes rotten. Becomes less expensive. Cheaper. Too concentrated to be healthy. Too stagnant. Too inflexible. By time, the water itself will transform. Disappear. Nature changed to something else. No eye will recognize it anymore. Will wonder, where the water went? No one will find the answer to this question. However, the answer will remain 'sous le vent'. Le vent of solitude. Sadness. Change. Age. Scattered water with its spalshes lost in the ocean. To no one. Not even to itself. Just splashes. Here and there. On the face of a fisherman on a hot day. Cause him to be smile. But will soon dry again and the splash will be forgotten. Forever.


Post a Comment

<< Home