I think of you
If you could hear me, I would tell you to tighten the hands towards this setting sun. To look at taking shape on the sea of clouds your name, your first name. I would shout you to seize this world which extends. It is with your image, make beauty, of infinite, compassion. I would push you with tightening the hands towards this gold sun. Its color in the light of your hair. Its magnificence has your pace. Seize it, steals it, carries it like a conquistador. Flee with for eternity. Become eagle, extend your wings. Plane above mountains and of the plains, bathes in the depth of this sky. Time had just penetrated by the gold door in its vastness. To taste salt, to delight you of it of his honey. But, you are not here. I think of you as soon as a thing fills with wonder me.
Lire la suiteOur delivery
With the gulls, I will give this small package. That in which we locked up all our secrecies. Solicitors or unavowed. That does not have any more importance. With the gulls, I will ask to fly away. To plane towards these remote regions where they will deposit it. It will be our chance. With the gulls, I will entrust our need to escape to us. They will plane to this place where one cannot walk any more. It will be our last hope. With the gulls, I will give our light luggage. They will stick to carry it, to transport it with respect. It will be our ultimate lovesong. With the gulls, I will ask to accompany them by the thought. Beyond the floods, storms, towards the setting one turning red of a sun of summer. Slipped into the brittleness of our secrecies. That has such an amount of importance. It does not remain us any more but they to come to visit us. For each morning a pinched bread end. In front of our window, they bring the innovations to us. That summarizes our impotence. To fly, plane, on their transported wings. To look at the world being spread out below. Not touch, just to observe it. That will be our chance. Until the end of the world to project itself. To leave our window with the skimped universe. To project itself, to have plans, the ultimate one, the last. That will be done without arrogance. Just to fly away.For still vibrating. For still breathing. It will be our delivery.
Lire la suiteDoors of temptation
One day, the doors will open. One day, we will enter inside. To know the truth. That which escapes to us. That which will give a direction. All that one does, with all that one feels. Without never understanding it. Carrying out each day by practice, lassitude. One will go hand in the hand crossing the doors at the moment when they will open. Without fear with the certainty which our turn came. Not to have cheated. To have waited. Looking At this wood and stone wall. Each day. Each evening. We contemplated it with waiting of this moment when the right will be given to us. To leave this world, to penetrate in another which we imagine different. There will be no more beauty, nor of ugliness. There will be only the hope of our dreams. We will carry them with us for single luggage. Neither heavy, nor light. Thus we imagine this elsewhere. It cannot be about it differently. To imagine the worst to make moment present the best. To still remain still and vis-a-vis the door. It would be enough to push it. It would be so simple. Nothing is simple. It little by little is understood. To like to breathe. To like to live. To like to continue to dream. Us to strengthen for this day when the choice will have to be made. The good. To cross the door. To launch out or remain. I am not sure any more of me. I am not sure any more of you. However, I need so much you. To only leave, I cannot imagine it. To see you you going from there, I cannot support it. I hate this dead end in which temptation imprisoned us. We lost such an amount of time to work, modify, transform our intended. We were mislaid in front of these closed doors which will remain it forever. Which madness to have wanted one day to exceed them. To be happy, it is enough for us to remain on our side. With this happiness of each day to live together. With this concern of protecting it, of sequestering it in order to never see it escaping to us.
Lire la suiteTo leave
To leave without being turned over. To go on the peak of the waves. To go up, go down, without drowning. Just to move away. Carried by the breath of the wind. Transported by the noise of water. To look at the flight of the gulls, plunging in frozen scum. To like the storm which rose. To close the eyes not to see more. Not to more seek to know. To float from to go away. Without direction, hesitation, question. To leave behind oneself the good, the bad one. More nothing to wait, not to more seek to undertake. Just to sail, let themselves carry. To feel the calm to be born. To have the feeling to reappear. To be well. In one evening or perhaps in a morning without a future. To flee far. The only force of the destiny. To have understood almost too late. With the doors of despair. To be itself lost in the black. To be itself misled at the end of a road of chance. To let itself toss. To let itself derive. To plunge in water to wash themselves, be cleaned. For all to erase. For one day to fail itself. In another world where all is to be created. On an abandoned beach. On a sunny bank. With concern not to have preserved in oneself the pangs of the past.
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Our house
I wanted to close the door nothing to regret, our vacancies, our moments of life, to contemplate the sky of summer together, the winter flames of the chimney. As the car descends the road bordered of trees, I try to recall me. Like a test to remember me, to know that I am able to retain. This long staircase which I saw for the last time descending until me. You were not in top, you are not it any more since so a long time. I do not remember really any more this image where you descended it while running. They are not so old but I forgot does not want me. I looked at for the last time this staircase while thinking of you. I miss your presence so much. I make pretense of living without. Solid like a rock, fragile like an idol with feet of clay. With the bottom of the staircase, there was the old settee where we came to crumble after our races in the meadows. By decency, I covered it with a white cloth. I had the impression to place on the shades of our lives the final veil which will choke them. It is that which touched me the most. I closed again the door without more anything to look at. I had promised it. I was sure any more of nothing, neither of me, nor of this desire for selling the house of our passion. Without you, it was an empty shell. At the time to leave it, I understood that she belonged to my life even without you. You will live it forever. I will not return there. I would not have of it soon more the key. One day next somebody will open the door, will penetrate in our paradise. He will remove the cloth of the settee, will consider it too old, worn. Like our memories, our lives which this house sheltered. The road between the trees is completed. I remember the first time where we made the opposite way; me leading, you anxious to discover. In top, behind a wall, the foliage of thickets, the house appeared. Now, I do not see it any more in the rear view mirror. The trunks of the trees of the winter hide it to me. It is the moment that I feared more. That of knowing that all is finished. I had not imagined it a kind. A bunch of memories attack me, torture me. I want to preserve some one killing you the staircase in this first morning from summer throwing you in my arms.
Lire la suiteThe presence
You lived so a long time in this house that you took his colors of them, his unhappiness, his old age. Parts without light behind worn wood shutters where nothing passes in an oppressive intimacy. To hide you, not to frighten, panic. You so often wandered in the staircase with the worn steps. To thread you, dodge you, delete you. Without goal, passing as a shade of rooms in rooms, first with the living room of rez of roadway. To breathe, not to asphyxiate, not to suffocate. You entered their lives without you to point out. Not to obstruct them, offend them, contract them. They saw you, just felt, sometimes not imagined. To worry, doubt, question themselves. In top, you took refuge in the lasting attic of long years. More not to exist, make you forget, to respect them. They aged, to accept your presence, learned how to live with before dying out in charge of this heavy secrecy. Not to reveal it, frighten, terrify. The house was never sold, it resembles to you, you resemble to him as twin sisters, you do not have in addition where to go. To exist, be in hiding, lock up you. Between sky and hell, in the purgatory of this ghostly veil which recovers you, you are lost in the limbs of your heavy last. To have liked more than of reason, to have adored at the point to kill, to be gone until the last end. One day you will be delivered. To fly away, curl up in the arms of your love.
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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
