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Article Communautés Concours Essai Multimédia Personnelles Poèmes Presse Prose _QUOTE Scénario Spécial | ||||||
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agonia ![]()
■ Au pied du grand chêne ![]()
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2010-08-14 | [Ce texte devrait être lu en english] |
When you wake in the night,
you hear a high-pitched whine that, in some places in the world, is called the singing of the stars. Other places, it's called loneliness. And yet, in others, it's mortality. I wake, and I luxuriate in the perfect fit of my aloneness. Yes, to have my skin on is a luxury. In spirit, I have whitewashed the ancient timber walls of my selfhood. I have painted fresh medallions of makebelieve flowers on the membranous panels. The winter rains, the churlish equinoctial winds, once deflowered them. No more. The walls of my home are decorated and impenetrable. I have canted a curse. I have made my celibate skin into a celebration. No one need admire the clever handiwork, the pleasing symmetry. No uxoriousness is demanded, merely, this unctuous containment. This healing liniment that fingertips the lineaments of my salvation. This salve. I live in a cleft not reached by roads. There is barely any mail. My beautiful, whitewashed wholeness is my home.
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