Dark Solitudes (English version)

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a s -M n e Je a d tu i l so

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Wherever you turn, go or come from, you can find loneliness, solitude, isolation, abandonment. We can see them everywhere, anytime, always. Wether you’re looking for them by yourself or wether life have forced them upon you, they generates those dry winds sculpting ruthlessly our internal deserts.

Color or black and white, they free our thoughts or block our runs but they know how to look good to the eye of the photographer who knows how to peak and detect the dark beauty somewhere amongst those fragments of life.

Shattered ones though.

Contrasted visions of mine, then, fixed on lenient pixels.

Sometimes, it’s sunny.

Everything is beautiful, all around you.

But everything’s empty and you’re so empty.

Too.

You’ve dropped all your life in a poor sorry plastic bottle.

Drifting away like you are.

Thrown away like you are.

Empty like you are.

So you plunge avidly into some internal journey thinking that, somehow, it’s traveling at least.

But it’s only tripping.

Not far enough my friend.

Up to the rim, but not full enough my friend.

There are gardens, nearly virtual, and inside those you think you’re protected, pasteurized, chlorophylized, freeze-dried.

Hudge walls surround them, but you don’t see them really.

They’re so subtly painted.

Decorated with soft colors as to make you a cosy universe, one you think you built yourself.

All is comfort... Illusion... Appearance...

All is irony.

Solitude has a sense of humor.

Always at your depends though.

What is there to do?

How must it be done?

Going on, always, toward those unknowns, overthere, above those sealed, always far away, horizons.

In solitude, walls are closing fast around you, they corner your hope, put your spirit in hold, render you blind.

So lonely.

So much aching in the head.

It rings in your nothingness and echo to nowhere.

Blank echoes.

Nobody’s on your line.

You’re just full of emptiness.

Someday, you’re just an old thing. Isolated.

Useless thing, nearly cumbersome, nearly forgotten.

Put there, like an inanimated object.

Put there, sitting besides this beautiful red carpet.

Your passing life it is. Once upon a time.

You’re nearly at its end. There.

Your don’t know it yet, but you’re almost embalmed.

If you’re nice, and clean, then, once in a while, what’s left of your family (not your wife of course. She left you a long time ago.) will come, maybe, to visit you.

It’ll be a Sunday, certainely. After a nice brunch. Before the rain. Between two traffic jams.

Not for long anyhow.

The most money you’ll let, the most visit you’ll get.

That’s all you are now: a monetary hope, a potential profit, a upgraded wallet.

Just an old well-filled leather purse neatly tucked above your irregular pulse.

Numerous are the mazes of your life.

Tortuous. Sinuous.

They wind ahead for you to hesitate, for you to loose yourself, to drown yourself.

And you’ll be lost, for sure!

Even if you know your way around.

The low sky can only be grey.

Your entire world, anthracite, is losing its colors.

Even the flowers are shutting down on your path.

Everything is leaded. Leaded in your head. Leaded in your feet.

Loaded is your gun.

You wander at non-will in long empty streets.

You’re looking for a soul mate, a full mate, and when you think you found it then it’s only to back up and jump into the drain.

A foul mate is what you’ll get.

No exit

Rumination

There are, also, those storms in your life, in your head, behind your eyes.

Those trailing clouds hooking their fuzzy zones on your back.

Trails of memories not all glamourous.

Blue sea, or grey.

Lake or ocean.

The bank will be slippery.

Cold.

Unstable.

unsure shore

Of course, someday, the sun will come back, but in your head there’s always that desaturated veil.

Alone your are and you called for it!

There are those enormous blocks of glass, concrete, or sand...

Crushing you like a fly that doesn’t fight anymore, caught as you are in that web of cosy habits that make, and unmake, your life.

Didn’t I say so already?

It’s a grey life you have.

So grey in fact that they decided to paint your walls with bright and colorful tints.

Like that you won’t think you’re blind, not seeing anything anymore as you are.

Your eyes, burned by the plasma of those giant TV screens, don’t drive informations no more.

Only advertising, cute and polished, blue or green for you to think your univers is clean and safe.

They disconnected your brain but your eyes still think they’re open.

So clever...

Leprosy

In this dreary universe, in this aquarium where float — more than they swim — some not really exotic fishes, the fire in your hair and in these fashion accessories only exist for you to think you’re alive, to make you believe you’re existing in this parasited world, to give you some hope of yourself, contrasting again the dulness your your universe.

The more the concrete is colored.

The more the glass is tinted.

The more your life is grey and like those jeans you’re wearing... already washed-out!

This is where you want to stand out.

Poor you.

Vamp-iris-me...

Then, in the hope of fighting against your lows, you build yourself some highs.

Great walls of glass which only reflect the vacuity of your existence against the vanity of your ego.

Your shoulders bend but your glaze is shining, enlighted only by these sharp sparkles that run through your shattered soul.

So, you try to humanize.

You plant.

Here, a streetlight.

There, a tree.

Artificial verticalities that only are mockeries but that give you excuses.

And also, something to watch.

What a match!

Arborectum

Then, reality fades away, contrasts run away.

Light is going down, sun is shading.

Shadows are getting long, but it’s not the night.

It’s your night.

Behind your eyes, here it is growing the tide of boredom, the bubbling of shouts, silent, unheard.

Of course.

This is solitude, right?

Mute. Voiceless. Bleached.

At least, the one which have your guts, schredding them in small aching bits.

Prey...

Night vision

Internal visions that grow dark.

You invent yourself the «your time eraser machine» and you go down, down, down, deep into the night of yourself, but even there you won’t find nobody ‘cause you’re all alone and that’s for long.

Soon, you’re only some kind of useless piece of shit.

A trashbag in the middle of others, incognito amongst the litter and the pigeons, them very plump.

Then you know you’re just nothing anymore.

Someone, somewhere, maybe you maybe not even you has flushed away your destiny, closed the doors of all your paths, thrown away the keys of your possibilities, erased your humanity, his, theirs, ours on top of it.

Market for life is very low.

Stock .

The market.

Stuck.

Fucked!

Negative alcohol level

Even in the golden streets of the beautiful capitals where you wander like the abandonned soul of yourself, you don’t have much value.

For someone else I mean.

Any overdraw is forbidden, you have topped your max a long time ago and it has slipped slowly until now at your minimum authorized.

That’s what you are now: a minimum.

Even not vital.

Zoned

Pi[e]ty

Under the sun or hidden in the shadow loneliness likes it the same.

No better, no worse.

Not more bearable in the heat or in the winter.

It crawls in your head and when installed is so hard to be taken out, to be draged out.

Becoming the parasite of your existence, your wants, your choices is only a matter of time...

Opportunities are no options.

Someday, the final world has been spoken.

You take your road, going into the light.

Even so blinding.

But this is what you have always done: searching the light... letting it guide you...

Like you wanted to escape your internal darkness, exorcise your dark solitudes...

You think you’re out from the tunnel, but in fact, you‘re entering it.

And alone... again... always... of course...

Ite missa est.

Entering the tunnel...

You cross people who don’t see you, certainly don’t look at you.

Unhabitated skin shells who never touch others because of social acceptance, congenital hypocrisy, «savoir-vivre» alone, chronic lies and other well analyzed, delimited, safeguards.

Fortunately, because of that solitude, you can travel where you want, sleeping in those marvellous exotic palaces that are randomly placed as are those very erotic creatures with whom you choose to spend your nights.

Disorientation indeed.

Thrill indeed.

Tip not included though.

Abroad

In this world, populated with creatures planted where it has been decided they would be planted, every movement is framed, every contact is delimited.

Before being eliminated.

You don’t decide about solitude. It imposes itself .

Life is distilling it to us, little by little, with no pain.

To start with.

Then, someday, it hits us.

Hard.

Then only you understand how fooled you were, how foolish you’ve been daring to think you’d avoid it.

Dis-location

Your entire unhabitated worlds.

Deserted.

Vanished. ÂŤAirstreamedÂť.

So zeroed is your life, there, in front of your eyes, there, yes, yes... there!

Where nothingness took the whole summer to let you only in the cold.

draughts

Shiny rain has given a kind of spark to the battered pavement.

So, you think your life is shining.

A little.

Even when there’s some green, you’re all lost.

The trees above your head are only there to scratch your sky with their long sharp claws.

Insurmontable walls or impassable bridges, everything is made for your solitude stays deep inside you, for the social concrete doesn’t harden.

Sliding down into the notes of a deep souled Blues from St-Louis, Missouri, or never-ending wanderings in St-Louis island, Paris , France, Alone you are.

Alone you’ll die.

Respiration

Is solitude more bearable in Occident, in Orient, in the present or in the past?

Whatever the set it’s a weight on your shoulders, on your neck, it brakes your back, your articulations, your destiny.

It runs equally on your too salty cheeks.

It grips equally your throat.

It steal the same your willing laughs and dreams.

Even to smoke, now you have to exile, to stay alone, filled with shame and opaque thoughts.

Blue smoke for grey thoughts

When solitude is too heavy, you think about going up.

You then scan the horizon, for once less cluttered, but as always, delusion is your reality.

There’s no one to shelter you.

So, when you volontary seek solitude, they think you’re suspect, not normal, a weirdo, a social misfit.

Badly calibrated.

You can search, try, dare.

You can look wide and far, you know you’ll never strike anyway.

But you still try.

Your poor skull is protected but only from the outside.

The blows are inside.

But Man is made like that.

He must always hope...

An infinite hope

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