I hold you the hand
I hold you the hand, I do not want to run. You hold me the hand, you do not want to drown you. Why plunge, without knowing to swim? To Play with the limits of life to know that nothing betrays us. Assemble in me the violence of the rejection. Vibrate in you terror to have been afraid. More not to touch the edge, to be able to go up, never not to breathe. In water, to only give up us, we touched with this burning desire more to leave us. Promise that the ground swell of our fears sealed forever. It was necessary to push the doors of terror. To understand that our rage is stronger than our furies. The waves of our rancours carry salt to revive our wounds. Without having the force of this terrible fright. That I had to see you sinking elsewhere. For our greater misfortune. In the abyssals zone of an ocean of pains. I felt this need to remain in life with you. That you go until the end with me. I hold you the hand, I do not want to run. You hold me the hand, you do not want to drown you. It is this image which I want to carry. Lengthened on the back, floating by looking at a starry sky.
Lire la suiteThe tram
Turn the horse-gear of the days and weeks stretching the months and the years in the same sorrow. On the repetition of a partition balancing itself between the rails of the tram. Carrying the given rhythm sequence of renewed waitings. Putting rhythm into the magic horse-gear captive of a single way. Each time repeated at the point not to look at more. Behind the pane life to be held. Nor the majestic decoration to be spread out. There is only truth to precipitate hung with the wire of a destiny. Transporting the disjointed puppets, dismembered to sway on the rails of the tram. Insensitive with the scents of moisture bathing the end of the day. Panic impatience giving in the middle its reason to beat. Precipitation to calculate wasted time, the hours wasted to immobilize itself. In waiting forced to fight. Ordinate by the metronome of rails twisting under the wheels of the tram. Never wearying itself to repeat. Each day without becoming exhausted the same way. Marking the repetition, hours and years. That all borrow into growing old, while exhausting itself to end up giving up. With the certainty that always will be similar while being present or absent, imagining the closed eyes. The moment when the doors open or will be closed again. In the softness of a beam solidified by its reason to exist. Hung with the clock of the time which likes to be repeated. That yesterday and tomorrow will be like today, slow and measured. Carrying waitings, the desires for precipitating. In the given rhythm rhythm being balanced between the rails of the tram. That one can like or hate. That nothing never will be able to stop. Make to live while being locked up on the parallel line of fixed rails. Does nobody know if the dream would not be to escape from it? Bringing madness, an open door on the imaginary one in order to fly away. Until elsewhere free and released. Immediately attached by this pressing need. That nobody would understand the lack of respect. Of this law which is punctuality. Making turn the horse-gear of the days and weeks stretching the months and the years in the same sorrow. On the repetition of a partition balancing itself between the rails of the tram. For always and forever.
Lire la suiteFour minutes zero two
The sound of a piano, sad and dark notes running on the web melody. Drawn Up to equip the house with all your secrecies. Those that I imagine, which you will never deliver to me. I pass in insipid and gray shade in front of this door that it is impossible for me to push. I am erased without that not wearying me. Carried by the music of this piano on which you cheeks for me. In this waiting of you who will not break my faith. Run out the time of a vague hope. Also far that my chance will go. Four minutes zero two of happiness torn off with white and black from the piano. Each time repeats this slow rhythm, melancholic person and beautiful. Carrying the tears with the eyes. Manufacturing this other idea of the marvellous one. Behind which you shelter protected by massive and luminous walls. I imagine big rooms, recesses. Where you protect yourself hiding your capricious desires. Beautiful and inaccessible, frail and sensitive. I draw you thus. That gives the impression to me that I understand you, that we could be friendly. There are so many things which could bring us closer. The fact sometimes of crossing. You, outgoing of these luxurious cars which take you along to walk you. Me passing, returning to work. It is little. But we could be happy. Four minutes zero two. Of music which sometimes escapes from your window. Sent to the sky or me perhaps? A exchanged furtive glance which I remember. Who retains me. Did I see your eyes, I do not know if you remember mine? Each evening per same hour, I pass and pass by again. Trusting randomly. In advance or too late. We will cross. We will hear. The sound of a piano, sad and dark notes running on the web melody. Drawn Up to equip the house with all your secrecies. Those that I imagine, which you will never deliver to me. That I could not ask you. There will be the softness of your hands. The hot breath of this divine wind. Cherishing my face, I close the eyes. Four minutes zero two. Of happiness to be happy. This evening, you took the time to look me before playing. Your fingers skim the keys while perhaps thinking of me. I dare to believe it, I want it, I have only you. In the vacuum, there are images, shades and then us two. Coiled in a recess of the large house. Where the lights do not shine more than thousand fires. Half-light where our passions are connected. At the borders of the insanity. I have only one dream for companion. And the sound. Of a piano which you cherish without hesitation. Causing so many storms in my heart in love. Who beats to the rhythm of your pulsations, time so four minute zero two. I timed it. I wanted to engrave it. In my memory to know. A small crumb of hope. Connecting to me forever to you. Negligible and so long-lived that you sent until me.
Lire la suiteThe call of the last kiss
There is an image which returns unceasingly as a door which is not able to be closed again. Rubbed, used on the chess-board of the regrets, the rejected words, the thoughts built without being delivered. Out of fear of not being understood or simply by cowardice. There is this image of a face which from goes away, that nothing does not retain.Not even a memory, a tear, an epic of the hand. There weighs this impossibility in heaviness forced to remain spectator. Victim of an absorption, of a reclusion in a space time when slowness infiltrates. To see dissipating itself behind the clouds of the memory. The promptness of a glance, the light of a smile, the momentary reflection of happiness. There remain nothing or if little to choose between hope or despair. There is so much to rebuild, fill the vacuum, to make up the scars to be juggled with the artifices of the day and the evening. It bathes like impotence around pocket of resistance. Who lights the light of the wrapped memory of the lapse of memory of the years. Without tolerance in a total dependence. This wire impossible to tend between reality and the past. Half-compartment at the time to connect it. Who however always seeks to connect himself. Beyond the fog, out-of-date and frozen images. In the posture of statues planted in the commemoration of an abandoned idea. At the moment when the veil rose, carrying their secrecies. Leaving only the memory of a set ablaze glance, the call of the last kiss. There was only him for giving him.
Lire la suiteTimidity
A hesitation, a doubt, a reserve. Before entering, to see and be seen. A hand which trembles, of the steps which hesitate. Intoxication of the timidity which would like that any master key quickly. Like the breath of a fleeing wind. On dormant water of a falling asleep lake. An interrogation, so much of questionings. As the reflection of what skins you in inside. The desire for shouting with you to choke some. Without daring to release the first mot. an offense with these feelings which speak too high. In your head, your heart. Who immediately take fear. With the idea to express itself. In total freedom. Stronger in you. There, where they can dictate their law. Kidnapping the virginity of your thoughts. Living in perfect violation of your impulses. Singing the anthem syphilitic of your timidity. Who pushes you to hide you. Behind this door instead of you to show. What to say? To release you. To help You to flee. There is nothing which obliges you to undergo. This weakness that you trail as lazes. Indolente, sufficient, which gives birth to. Of this timidity which you learned how to carry. Since it is necessary to you to humiliate. Behind this door of what you do not manage to push. To arrive there, it would be necessary to hustle you, force you. To Cause this revolt which only requires to burst. As Many feelings ready to submerge you. In the expression of an oppressive sufficiency. You, seeking your breathing of a slow puff. Red coloring your skin. Tattooing your impotence with the mark of the seal. Of a lack of confidence which you carry too high. It me sometimes the idea has just given up you. Only, like one exiled. On a continent where there would be nothing to make, nor to propose. Just to hide you behind the doors which you could find. I weary myself, nailed by your lack of audacity. Broken by the feeling that is very erased. Behind the veil of this timidity which kills to us. A hesitation, a doubt, a reserve. Before entering, to see and be seen. A hand which trembles, of the steps which hesitate. Intoxication of the timidity which would like that any master key quickly. The whole being repeated behind the white flag that you agitate. It me sometimes the idea has just protected you. Behind large drawn up walls. To insulate to you, let themselves breathe. In a place where there would be no door to push. No the innovation to be faced. For better treating your disease. This infirmity which puffs out you the life. To make would not be you to like. I do not have the right to keep you. Of you for me. To move back this bitter moment where you will have to enter in full light. To Hesitate, doubt, all in reserve. Te throw, to enter, see, be seen. With a hand which trembles, of the steps which hesitate. In the intoxication of this timidity which would like that any master key so quickly.
Lire la suiteMy dreams fled
My dreams fled. Do not rove any more in the middle of my nights. Leaving a diffuse trace like a confused rumor. Where a sad feeling rustles. Carried by the wind. That later will not be any more like front. My dreams fled. Loans of nostalgia. Releasing a revolt, a bit of fury. Who prevents me from sleeping. Carrying Me to insomnia. Country where so many memories are hustled. Their recall bewitches me, carries me sorrow. My dreams fled. In a search veins. Made drunk of these moments of madness. Where the night was black charged to know. Where the images were colored colors. Mixed with the imaginary grounds, their savors. My dreams fled. Leaving nothing for absence of life. On an absorbed ground. From where goes up the nauseous mud. Questions without answers. Who abound. Who tear like brambles. Fragile skin of the veil of the memories. My dreams fled. In a perfume of end. Of all and nothing. My dreams fled. Without taking the hand. With the body accompanying their destiny. Creating in the drift of time. The languor of these vapors. Who hide the following day. Behind the folding screen mocker. Of an ice-cold reality. Arrival to extinguish heat. Dreams which will be never rigid. With their nimble skeleton, their flexible and futile thought. My dreams fled. In the middle one night. Opening the hand. Cutting our bonds. Giving up itself on the wave. Releasing itself towards another world. Me, the fussy one to leave. Hoping to see them returning. By leaving a diffuse trace like a confused rumor. Where a sad feeling rustles. Carried by the wind. That later will not be any more like front.
Lire la suite
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
