The road without end
There is at the end of the road without end, over there, at the bottom of wood, so far to find it is a miracle, a small castle. At the edge of a river, it looks at water running its abandoned towers. Some walkers all, luckier the ones than the others, make of this place a secrecy. They find silence and peace there. No more time ago, neither of rules, nor of principles, just the calm of an opened out and wild nature. There remains especially the pleasure of having had the chance to lose itself on the road without end along its twisted turns which never finish any. To leave becomes one moment in charge of regrets. Contrary, there will remain always the burning desire to return there.
Lire la suiteThe moon does not have any more pity of us…
I often went, by the ways of the forest, to the cross. That lost, with the crossroads of four ways, in the middle of the vastness of dark and worrying trees. I do not count any more the number of times where I came. Since my first visit, I do not live any more but for the marvellous gleam which accommodated me. It alleviates me. Once again, I progress towards it. The moon clarifies my steps, choked by the carpet of dead leaves. The shades of the trees are done narrower, more discrete. The raptors stop whistling. Little by little, silence is done heavy, heavy, oppressive. I felt this impression at the time of my first arrival. This night when I had been mislaid whereas I sought you hopelessly. But that does not worry me now any more. It is, each time, similar. I came day without feeling this impression of marvellous heat penetrating me. The stone cross is traditional on its base, beautiful, without more. Whereas the night, the moonbeam which transpierces it projects in background another cross white which seems to float in the air. From day, it is not seen. It is translucent, unreal. Often, I tighten the hand it to seize but you me leashes never to approach. You left this evening fog in the large forest not to return never again. I sought you without never you to find if these are not the marvellous cross which in my imaginary replaces you. This is why, this evening, like the other evenings, I visit you. The forest avoids silence, offering a share of intimacy to us. There will be few things to say oneself. I will approach the cross, to sit down in front of it, to wait until the moon comes to cherish of a magic ray the cross, causing the appearance. I am afraid. Yesterday, it was not there. Days preceding too. Did the vacuum of our last meetings come to extinguish my imagination and the marvellous gleam? For several nights, the moonbeams have not touched any more the stones of the cross. My pain of your absence moves away, my mourning is done. The moon does not have any more pity of us…
Lire la suiteI do not have any more the key
I had sworn that never I will not pass in front of the castle, for this day when you closed his door definitively. A long time ago, ten years, perhaps more? Nine years, ten months and seven days ago exactly. I cannot make seeming, to speak about it with detachment. That is impossible for me for all these memories which we have with. Its walls are the books of our more beautiful years. Its windows, our first openings on the world. We came there the summer. At this period when all is easier, long days, soft nights. These images are languorous times of summer infinite. They prepared by this long road of the vacancies to join it. One told stories for better crossing his grid, to penetrate in his imaginary. It was ours, of the staircases which squeak, of the closed doors, of the big rooms, this cold of the last winter being detached in scrap under the attacks from a blazing summer. One opened the windows, pushed the shutters; the light settled while we withdraw cloths recovering the pieces of furniture. How much times have it is done? The years passing the rooms became less large, the less high staircases but the magic always operated. So far where we closed his door definitively. Over the moment, nothing us were said. One did not have to say to him goodbye because we thought of returning like habit. Except, that further on the road of the return to the turning of a turn, in this place where there was a red house, blood of the abandonment, we learned that it would be sold. The castle was going to leave us. We still live, today, with this open scar, deeper than all these other summers spent to trail without goal, more painful than these one completed time memories, we always think of him. What did it become? It is always alive in our memory. This is why, I disavowed my promise and came to see it. Its doors, its windows are closed, as if nobody had opened them since our departure. Rust was installed on the large grid of entry. Insane grasses push in the court in front of the garages with the carved wood doors. It waits désœuvré. I approached. I would have liked to push the grid, to open the door, to jump on the first stairs which squeak, to go up as insane in the stages, to open the windows, to make like front. I was able to awake it. At this moment, I became aware that I do not have of it any more the key, the precipitant for always in the cemetery of my memory.
Lire la suiteWe held it
There are only in love ones, on the public benches, which have the right to be happy. Languorous, they know that the eternal snow protects their love. Look at their eyes, this spark of youth, their madness, their life. We were thus. Today, we walk less quickly with our worn bodies. The bench enables us to rest. One does not believe any more in the eternal snow. But we always sat together on this public bench where in love ones have the right to be happy. It is not a performance but this will of each day which protected our love. Then, yes, I confess it, I am a liar, I still believe in the eternal snow although the existence taught me that they found with the sun. I knew to turn the glance not to be tried by other mirages. I preserved the opened eyes, rivetted on you, seeking to light me your life, of your madness. They protected me, leading me towards this bench where I always take as much pleasure to be sitted in your company. Soon, we will not be able to come there any more. We will miss the forces. In fact snows of the love found with the sun but the life, our lives. Do not say it to in love, does not break their not dreamed. We were so well when we had their age, that we made this project gives never to leave us. We held it.
Lire la suiteDid you really exist?
I remember this castle where we were going to walk. We walked along the ditches looking at water reflecting the high walls, the rare white windows. Sometimes, some ducks passed, a couple of swans accompanying them. We looked at them advancing their webbed legs leaving behind them the waves of their walk. You liked these particular moments where the small ones followed them naively. It was spring, the beautiful days. Perhaps did you think that one day we would come, in the alleys of this castle, of the children playing behind us? I do not know it. The idea often skimmed me. You were so secret. I hid behind your silences. It was my way of accompanying you. We came, of the years during, without becoming aware that our walks did not have a goal. This vacuum so far carried the value of a refuge where I saw you more. It rained. I took delay on the road, a deceleration, hesitant drivers, I arrived five minutes later that of habit. You were not there under the porch of the entry. The rain had not been able to stop you. How much time planes us faced wind, downpours, storms? While coming, I had the presentiment of your absence. It is easy to say it now. The empty porch, your frail silhouette which is not posed in front of the hedge of bay-trees, these signs did not mislead me. I do not know your address. Where to seek you, where to find you? Would you like quite simply? It remain me that this question don’t you are part wearied to expect me or you refused to come? I do not want to know your answer. To know that we did not have any future together. I always knew it. Since, I make the turn of the castle, only. The ducks, the swans aged, their children took over animating the ditches of the castle. I walk without goal looking at them advancing on water. I often think of you the phantom of my walks. Did you really exist?
You hate my pessimism
I accompanied you at the bottom of glacier in this magic place where on the other side of the white wall the sun never lies down. The weather is not cold. It never made cold there. The sun floats above the white barrier fixedly hung between the mountains. It always was thus. Its glare is sharp, without being plugging. To tighten the hands, to seek to attract it with oneself, the desire is if trying. You tell me the history of these men who wanted to go to see other side the sun and this world that it illuminates. One tried to dissuade them. But, they were if stubborn. Parties, they never returned. To comfort itself, some think that they found a country marvellous where heat, softness are linked offering happiness to them. I want to believe it well but is does reasonable? That will lead us to want to climb the glacier, to be played of its cracks. Es do you lend for this voyage without return? You told me that up there between the mountains monsters doze, demons, guards of this marvellous territory. Do we Somme ready to defy them? I doubt it. You like what shines. Me not. To avoid me a cruel disillusion, I prefer to believe that on the other side of the glacier the sun is burning hot, that its rays are only sufferings. You will hate my pessimism, I know it. You react always thus. But we are still in life…
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
