Recroquevillé
Le corps en étaux
Du poison dans les veines pour éloigner le mal
Vacillé
Les sens en douleur
Le cœur vrillé en battements difficiles
Asphyxié
Il faut attendre
Vers la vie par la mort
Pleurer, aimer, espérer
Faire l’effort de vivre
Continuer
Ne rien lâcher
Still, she sits.
The hours are, she could not ignore them even if she tried, she feels every second weighing on her soul and heart. The stone beneath her is cold and hard and yet she moves not. For she could not, so heavy are her thoughts, and indeed, what is the point.
She has uselessly fought the wind, it has cought her hair and twirled and whirled, her ears deafened by ancient screams echoing her mind.
She has resisted, she has gone to war and refused defeat… her energy, her life, the world, she won’t be dictated.
So much time, so many battles and insignificant inches won… despite her oaths, tonight she feels she can not go on.
To understand what has defeated her she knows not. Was it a single second or the sum of her disappointments? She has realised she does not care anymore.
Still, she sits, at the top of a hill, and the valley beyond she contemplates, her mind wondering with what may have been her defeats and what she has learned.
It is a bittersweet reconning, she cannot be sure of what she has won or lost, tonight is neither a surrender nor a victory, rather it is a still moment in time, she is wiser than yesterday and yet unsure if tomorrow could be kind, and she has wants, freezing on the cold stone dominating the world, she fights back her tears, her anger and words, and softly nurses a small flicker of hope, her strongest weapon, for from a flicker grows a fire, a storm, as long as a door remains open, still and quiet and strong, she will succeed, tomorrow, after tonight’s sorrows she will thrive.
La fatigue s’imprime le long de son cou, s’enroule autour de ses épaules et descend dans son dos. Ses muscles tirent, ses os crient. Elle attend l’heure, la fin du jour et le repos. Brûlants, ses yeux fixent l’écran, il faut aller jusqu’au bout, compiler des chiffres dans des cases, sortir et comparer des calculs et projections. Trop de temps sans bouger, crispée sur sa chaise, elle a peur de voir la nuit tomber sans avoir terminé.
Elle entend la pluie avant de la voir, une cascade de gouttes frappe les toits et gouttières avant de s’abattre sur eux, dehors. Rapidement les téléphones se rangent, les cigarettes s’éteignent. La cours boisée derrière l’immeuble se vide tandis qu’ils courent vers la porte afin de se mettre à l’abri. Elle les regarde du 4ème étage, son bureau jouxte une fenêtre, elle en apprécie la lumière et les rêveries potentielles, quand le temps existe autrement qu’en filant si vite à en cogner la date buttoir.
de l'encre au bout des doigts 