The tower
There is in the middle of wood, on the top of a mountain, a large tower. Its roof bursts the sky. Like the drawn up finger of a provocation to the paradise, the hell, the whole ground. The storms of the summer, snows of the winter are baited above to destroy it but they never have enough forces to break it. Since centuries, it is there, resists the attacks of time, the words of the men. One does not know any more who built it. One does not know large any more thing besides. The legend reports that before the wolves, in band, came to lie down with its feet. That men died in front of his door. They wanted to enter, to protect, flee the snowstorm which froze them. They fell asleep died in the cold of the winter. The door of the tower opens only with those which have the key of it. The windows never light. It appears that pilgrims lost in the mountain saw it sparkling in the distance. That this light saved them, avoiding being mislaid. One tells so many things as the history of this woman who would live locked up inside of the centuries since. Some affirm to have seen its face looking through the panes. Too many silly things are said. I did not come you to tell them. I do not want to weary you. I am there to announce to you that I received the key from it. I can open the door. Together, we can climb the staircase of the tower which assembles all at the top of stars, so far ground, sea, the sky will do only one. You take to me for insane. I know it. How to convince you of the opposite? I hesitate since so a long time announcing it to you. The key fell from the sky, sent by the last which are assembled. They threw it as the stick of a relay which they wanted to transmit to us. Look at, it is between my hands. Small, fragile, I would have thought it more impressive, in keeping with a present which is made us. Why, don’t you want to see it? It offers eternity to us. It is the most beautiful present that we can receive. You doubts of me. You doubts of you. Are you afraid of my proposal? I do not know if you take to me for insane or if you fear to pass eternity to my sides. You do not know if your love will have this force. You are afraid, I feel it, understand it. You do not hesitate any more. You reject my proposition. I cannot hate you. All goes so quickly. The choice that I propose to you exceeds you. You are in a dead end. Refusing to go up the staircases of time. To live your life with back, not to know what could have been your many other mornings. I do not speak myself about future but about past. As if I doubted our following days. It is that which does you fear, more than all. You do not take to me for insane. I understand better why you refuse. By my fault, you do not believe any more in us.
Lire la suiteLa tour
Il y a au milieu des bois, sur le sommet d’une montagne, une haute tour. Son toit crève le ciel, le doigt dressé d’une provocation à l’enfer, à la terre entière. Beaucoup s’acharnent dessus, les orages de l’été, les neiges de l’hiver. Ils n’ont pas eu assez de forces pour la briser, la faire plier. Elle est là, depuis des siècles, résistant aux maux des hommes, aux attaques du temps. On ne sait plus qui l’a construite. On ne sait plus grand chose d’ailleurs. La légende rapporte que les loups, en bande, venaient se coucher à ses pieds. Que des hommes sont morts sur le pas de sa porte. Ils voulaient entrer, se protéger, fuir la tourmente de neige qui les glaçaient. Ils se sont endormis morts dans le froid de l’hiver. La porte de la tour ne s’ouvre qu’à ceux qui en possèdent la clé. Ses fenêtres ne s’éclairent jamais. Il paraît que des pèlerins perdus dans la montagne l’ont vu étinceler dans le lointain. Cette lumière les a sauvés, évitant de s’égarer. On raconte tant de choses comme l’histoire de cette femme qui vivrait recluse depuis des siècles. Certains affirment avoir vu son visage regarder au travers des vitres implorant, tendant la main. On dit trop de bêtises. Je ne suis pas venu te les raconter. Je ne voudrais pas te lasser. Je suis là pour t’annoncer que j’en ai reçu la clé. Je peux ouvrir la porte. Ensemble, nous pouvons grimper l’escalier de la tour qui monte tout en haut des étoiles, si loin que la terre, la mer, le ciel ne feront qu’un. Tu me prends pour un fou. Je le sais. Comment te convaincre du contraire ? J’hésite depuis si longtemps à te l’annoncer. La clé est tombée du ciel, envoyée par les derniers qui sont montés. Ils l’ont jeté comme le bâton d’un relais qu’ils voulaient nous transmettre. Regarde, elle est entre mes mains. Petite, fragile, je l’aurais pensé plus impressionnante, à la taille du cadeau qui nous est fait. Pourquoi, ne veux-tu pas la voir ? Elle nous offre l’éternité. Elle est le plus beau présent que nous puissions recevoir. Tu doutes de moi. Tu doutes de toi. As-tu peur de ma proposition ? Je ne sais pas si tu me prends pour un fou ou si tu crains de passer l’éternité à mes côtés ? Tu ne sais pas si ton amour aura cette force. Tu as peur, je le sens, le comprends. Tu n’hésites plus. Tu rejettes ma proposition. Je ne peux te haïr malgré le mal que tu me fais. Tout va si vite. Le choix que je te propose te dépasse. Te place dans une impasse. Tu refuses de remonter avec moi les escaliers du temps. Tu ne veux pas vivre ta vie à l’envers sans savoir ce qu’auraient pu être tes nombreux autres matins. Tu avais des projets pour nous deux. Je ne les ai pas écoutés. Je ne te parle pas d’avenir mais de passé. Comme si je doutais de nos lendemains. Comme si j’étais paralysé d’affronter notre avenir ensemble, main dans la main. Cela te fait peur, plus que tout. Tu ne m’a jamais pris pour un fou. Tu refuses car par ma faute, tu ne crois plus en nous.
Lire la suiteLover letter
On these waves of flowers, we will surf of happiness. Nothing will touch us neither despair, nor misfortune. We swore to love us. With the words of our promises, the ink of our certainty, the beats of our hearts. Our lives took the direction never to be left. The wind carried our secrecy until the end of the sky. There, where the bees gather nectar and pollen honey. There, where the clouds cry only of the tears of joy. In this country where there is only one sea of flowers. In this place where we will come to choke our tears. We will have some. You and me. Not to believe it would be an error. We will arrive until forgiveness. On cement of our faith. We will sail beyond the colors and of the perfumes. To do only one. Linking us forever.
Lire la suiteLettre d’amour
Sur ces vagues de fleurs, nous naviguerons de bonheur. Rien ne nous touchera ni le désespoir, ni le malheur. Nous avons juré de nous aimer. Avec l’encre de nos certitudes, les battements de nos cœurs. Nos vies ont pris le sens de ne jamais se quitter. Le vent a emporté notre secret jusqu’au bout du ciel. Là, où les abeilles butinent le miel. Là, où les nuages ne pleurent que des larmes de joie. Dans ce pays où il n’y a qu’une mer de fleurs. Dans ce lieu où nous viendrons étouffer nos pleurs. Nous en aurons. Toi et moi. Ne pas le croire serait une erreur. Nous parviendrons jusqu’au pardon. Sur le ciment de notre foi. Nous voguerons au-delà des couleurs et des parfums. Pour ne faire qu’un. Nous unissant à jamais.
Lire la suiteLeave in peace
I seek you since so a long time. Since my departure, for this day has sunk where I gave up you. Te leaving only with your doubts, your dreams, captive of your incomprehension vis-a-vis this world which terrified you so much. Party to run beyond these limits within which you imprisoned yourself a little more each day, I fled. More to help you, to escape to me from your madness which paralyzed my directions, blocked my breathing, choked the words on my lips. I left for elsewhere where the life is not as complicated as with you. It had become infernal. I did not support it any more. I moved away without me to turn over; finding the force in each new step not to look at behind. I do not know if you saw me moving away. I walked then run. To lose breath. I stopped far, so far I did not know any more where I was. It was dawning or night in this large forest where I crumbled. I do not remember any more. I remember the stars which in the sky rose. They shone of this glare which I had forgotten. With you, there were so many blacknesses in our life. I showed pretense them. By weakness, to hope that one day you would blow on the clouds of our cemetery. You never did it. On the contrary, you poked embers consuming the wire which connected to me with my last illusions. In the middle of the wolves, phantoms of our life passed, I lay between the trees of the forest. Their emaciated skeletons did not worry me. I was not afraid. They were less terrifying that the scarecrows of your insanity. Your madness reduced the walls of my freedom. It wore the nap off my projects, my days, my seconds so much so that the clock of time had stopped. I am not free now. Happy? Not really. Extremely of a feeling. That to have carried out something that I was to try. That to give up you. For me. For you. I did not know any more where we went. Yes, something had to be tried. A race despaired beyond the walls of your insanity. I know that it was needed. It was as all was to be completed. I it believed when we were together. Is this the good expression besides? We were close to a physical presence. And still… If distant mentally. The ditch had grown hollow as of the first day. We did not see it or pretends to forget it. Your thought obsessed me. I made feel guilty with the idea to give up you. I mixed things so much, arousing the pity of me on me, you. Thinking of your weakness. Your distress. I lived. I did not breathe any more. I did not eat any more. There was in me this single question of you, your suffering, your loneliness. I fell into pity. One does not like with pity. I understood it after these long years of wandering in the forests of my interrogations. I tried to sacrifice you on the furnace bridge of the lapse of memory. I scarified my memory to leave there only the drawing of my new life. I immolated the book of our destroyed past. Nothing made there. The more I fought to reject you, the more I approached you. Your madness entered in me. I did not manage to reject it. I called it. I sought you. I reconsidered my steps. To make me forgive, help you. Very mixed in my head. The confusion of my thoughts, the mixture of my obsessions, culpability of your abandonment. I shouted in front of our closed door. You did not answer. You were not there any more. I left to your search in the darkest recesses your thought. In these places where your demons abound. Where your fears corrode you. Those which ate, with one, your last pieces of light. I cherished the scales of your distress. Those which extinguished the colors by you leaving only the white and the black. I felt the freezing cold to go up along your bones. I saw this paralysis being spread in your flesh until this rigidity which suits you so well. Now, you do not move any more. You will not move any more. Your body did not bring any more any joy to you. Your spirit had given up it party on seas of which one does not return. You enter the table little by little. Your face settles in the decoration. A place so that you are reserved to you sharp. It is the first time that is offered to you. It still remains of concern on your face. The wax could not make up your last fears. You adorned your more beautiful dress. You seem almost happy. You will be it never. It is in your nature. I look at you. There remains to me that. I feel neither guilty, nor abandoned. We were made to leave us. It is what joined us. I finally understood it. You do not need more me. In your world, there is no place for me. In mine, we were too with the narrow one. Sleep my beautiful. Leave in peace.
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J'aime ce qui est gothique, ce qui est romantique, je vous présente mes textes et mes photos. I like what is gothic, what is romantic, I present my texts and photos Steffan Urell
