Accéder au contenu principal

Articles

Affichage des articles du avril, 2025

What do I do with this love?

  Today I woke up as one does. I had my cup of coffee, part of a routine I don't dare disturb. I wore the same outfit I had on yesterday, it wasn't hard to find it. It was right where I left it last night. And the night before. In a sad heap by the foot of my bed. I couldn't wear my rings, or anything on my wrist, its heaviness would make everything else unbearable. I left the house, keys jingling as I shoved them in my bag. I would struggle to fish them out of the mess when I get back, but that's something I'll have to figure out later. The bus is late, it always is. By the time I can see its carcass in the horizon, I've already developed a dull ache in my left knee. I wince as I climb the step. I pay the man whose face won't hold a place in my memories, they are already filled to the brim. I take a space to sway back and forth during a journey I know too well. The familiarity of it all is what makes it easy to navigate. It requires no effort to redo someth...

The “let people enjoy things” phenomenon and the trendification of hating

  With the verge between celebrity artists and the “commonfolk” being as small as ever, the rules of assessing an artist’s work have become just as tricky. And with the constant emergence of new subcultures by the hour, the concept of micro-celebrities makes the idea of criticizing anything even trickier, because we’re way past the time when you could buy your favorite artist’s record and just listen to it. Now it’s about being subjected to a streamline of the ins and outs of all the details from the conception to the eventual release. And it’s not just with the megastars of the world. Now practically every artist with a sizable following will have a community that knows more than just the final product, which gives us many artists who strive for the expansion of their personal lore with the idea that it will inevitably feed into the reception of their work, so that whoever is devoted enough will “get it” more. Because just listening to an album is not the same as knowing exactly w...

The Currency Of Time

    The train to work was shaking at the weight of the people it encased. Warm bodies sticking to one another; the intimacy of strangers forsaking their boundaries. A woman pushed against the opposite doors was gasping for air. She was hugging her messenger bag close to her chest. The whirr of the train hummed in the back of her head as her thoughts raced. She was late to work. Dread filled her body, not for her tardiness, but at the idea of spending another precious day caged in four walls, a flickering lamp over her head, sitting stiffly at her desk, pretending that she cared. Her own insignificance made clear to her as the hours passed by, and she was asked to redo a document or her numbers. Presenting her ideas to a team she barely knew as her colleagues archly smiled at each other. Sweat collecting in the crevices of her hand, her heart protruding from her chest, asking to be let out, to breathe.  The train came to a stop, a flush of people dissolving from each other...

Étouffer d’amour

  Le cœur entre les mains, je serrais si fort, car je ne voulais qu’une chose : étouffer d’amour. Ma chambre était glaciale, une morsure sourde, incongrue en ce mois de juin. Pourtant, l’air, lui, était brûlant, étouffant, lourd. Je portai ma main à mon front, pour vérifier si j’étais fiévreuse. N’avais-je jamais pris le temps d’observer cette pièce ? Ou bien était-ce ma tête qui me jouait des tours ? Les murs semblaient rétrécir, se resserrer à chaque fois que je levais les yeux, alors je les baissai. Je fixai mes mains. Je comptai mes doigts. Un, deux, trois… Dix. Dix comme toujours. Encore et encore. Mais il fallait constamment vérifier, pour m’assurer que tout cela était bien réel. Que je n’étais pas en train de disparaître. Le vide en moi, quant à lui, s’étendait, affamé, grignotant les contours de mon être, jusqu’à ce que je n’aie plus qu’une envie : me fracasser la tête contre le mur. Assise sur le bord de mon lit, je sentis naître, au creux de mon ventre, une chaleur nouvel...

The Last Words Of A Shooting Star

  Would you cry if I die? As they lower me into the cradle of the cold earth, would yours be the strong arm holding the coffin, or the gentle hand wielding the shovel, pulling the covers over my stiffening body as I tether between two worlds? Tucking me into the sleep I’ve been dreaming of for far too long, finally reaping the overflowing interest I’ve been collecting for the sleepless sleep I’ve offered at the altar where even ghosts have ceased to kneel, where candles still burn at the foot of a throne long since crumbled to stone. Would you be so kind as to warm the muddied soil in your hands before closing the tomb?   I run cold in my sleep, you see.   I think that’s why sleep abandoned me the day my mother stopped tucking the corners of the blanket between the bedframe and the wall to ward off the chill that bled in through the stone. She used to seal me in tight until I could no longer roll around, my tiny body swaddled in stillness as I drift off to a dre...

Noyé dans l’absence

  Ce n’est pas comme ça que c’était censé se passer. J’étais enfin heureux. Après tant d’erreurs, tant de doutes. J’ai été blessé avant. J’ai fait confiance trop vite. J’ai aimé trop vite. J’ai regretté beaucoup de choix, mais pas elle. Jamais elle. Je venais de me l’avouer, je devais le lui dire bientôt. Je l’acceptais enfin. Je l’aime. Ou je l’aimais? Je ne sais plus. Tout allait bien, très bien, parfaitement bien, trop bien. On avait trouvé un jour, entre nos emplois du temps impossibles, à passer ensemble. La plage avait semblé une bonne idée alors. C’était censé être une bonne idée. Elle était si heureuse. Elle rayonnait. Je l’ai laissée quelques minutes. Je voulais juste récupérer une serviette dans ma voiture. Je n’y étais pas encore arrivé quand le premier cri a retenti. Je me suis retourné pour voir l’eau beaucoup plus loin que je ne l’avais laissé. Je ne me rappelle pas clairement ce qui a suivi. Comme si, pris de fièvre, j’avais navigué entre la conscience et l’inconscie...