“Time is an always accelerating train, keeping us stuck into our seats, watching life from there instead of conversing with our neighbours.”
Err… yes, I’m fine thanks.
Once more the Lumbar brothers have made a fuss, putting me into forced rest. Sister Sciatic did nothing this time.
Nothing to do but stay still and do some potatoe couching while listening to some nice, gentle music. Hopefully the playlist is rather long, and I must be very far from its end.
My moves are limited to the very strict necessity. No interesting book at hand, still no wifi at home, so it is rather complicated to read the news or simply to get some distraction. Playing guitar is no more practical in this position, needless to say about the bass or the didge.
Today is my second “dead rat” special day. I can’t sleep in spite of my meds, although their box holds the yellow sign saying “do not drive when under this medication”; I should be snooring like a cat under the spring sun. Simply I can’t.
Outside the birds are having their day-to-day musical performance. This is a great help while slowly getting up in the morning, or while evacuating one’s soul in the evening, but still, no effect. My brain is running; ideas and thoughts come and go, but until the Lumbar brothers are quiet again there will be no real rest for me.
Lying on the sofa I can only spend my time watching the ceiling. It is rather low in my home, at a little more than seven feet. Beware to its woodden beams as they can make you see a few stars. The ceiling is white, but the number of white nuances is astounding, varying with the light intensity, the covered material and its surface. The beams show the grain of their wood, while the coating slightly shines.
It is spring, and a few flies are having a walk up there, as if they were on a frozen lake that would have been brought there upside down. Are they really on the ceiling, or else am I lying onto their ceiling? I bet they don’t care about it, and methink they care more about the octopod weavers hidden in the borders. They could so quickly be trapped into a web; no need to end up as a meal for those greeds. They are surely still very hungry after the drowsiness of this rather long and cold winter . One of them has left her former skin next to the window.
The ceiling, which a few minutes ago still seemed a uniform surface now looks like a slopped landscape with hills, impacts craters, mounds, and even pits that could morphe into ponds if the ice started to melt. Now this landscape in not as slick as it seemed, but rather grainy and uneven. While lowering down the horizon, the sun brings more light, producing what could be a false sunrise, just before letting the night come down.
By letting my sight wander onto this unlikely country, the surface starts to dance and shiver. A few darks spots appear here and there, but disappear as soon as I try to fix my eyes onto them. Is it an optical illusion, or else a funny side effect of something else? Slowly abandonning its relative flatness the ceiling is now taking more and more depth, up to swallowing me up in its improbable slopes. I am now flying within its serpentine valleys, each moment coming closer to its surface, so close that I can distinct fractures, canyons and abysses that make it look like the chitinous skin of some benthic arthropod.
My flight accelerates, and the landscape slips quicker and quicker around me. Here and there I vaguely notice creatures, most of them as stunned as me. Some seem to have threatening intentions but most are totally indifferent to my incursion into their territory. One more acceleration and I suddently recover some height, just before a last sharp incurvation of my path leads me straight towards the ground in an astounding acceleration.
I open my eyes into the weak light of the evening ; the ceiling has recovered its usual frozen lake appearance. The trip is over.
“I” is a narrow clothe that our soul is wearing,
thus experimenting that “We” are one.
“Je” est un habit étroit que l’esprit a revêtu,
découvrant que “Nous” sommes unique.
“I hold that when a person dies
his soul again returns to earth
Arrayed in some new flesh disguise
Another mother gives him birth
With sturdier limb and brighter brain
The old soul takes the roads again.”
(written in the 1800)
A daemon called Anger once tattooed onto my wrist
A scar shaped like a torn clothe.
Often it hurts and torments me,
Reminding me of past angers, and how vain they were.
Who are you, staring at me in the mirror?
To be honest you remind me of someone I’ve known a long time ago.
But you are different: the guy I knew always smiled.
What has happened to you? Which peripeties have broken you down like this?
Come on guy, give a little smile! Great! Now I’m sure this is you.
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