ces espaces infinis
Are there no fresh emotions?
Can we never be cured from our own past, from our useless connotations,
the blanks we filled in once and that are forever imprinted on us.
They tell us JUMP! and we don't even ask how high,
We jump to save our lives.
Can we ever be new skin?
Not a replica of those who came before,
not a remedy to what we have endured and survived.
But the strange perfection of the small spaces in between us
(those infinite spaces that frighten us so)
The ever-mobile molecules that constitute us; not yours and mine.
The in-between where, somewhere, we transcend and become something else.
Surely, this is our personal version of the Big Bang
as incomprehensible as it is magnificent.
And it only happens once,
until the world starts anew.
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