Mesdames et Messieurs,
Life is such a slippery thing. Ce n’est pas comme un insecte, pas comme un papillon– cannot be pinned down and examined. Fingers cannot grasp it, words cannot define it, its meaning can’t be determined. What the hell is it for? Quelle est la raison? What on earth am I doing here?
Why can’t I bring myself to update this silly blog more often? It seems like the least we can do is be consistent with our tiny, insignificant tasks.
But there are days when I am so caught up in the enormity of life: the great expanse of the sky tumbles into my eyes, stars speckle my skin and I’m not here anymore. I’m big and wide and floating. Then there are days when I am trapped in minutiae: contemplating the veins of a leaf for hours, fascinated by the ridges and lines of a hand. I am so small I am barely here.
I can’t comprehend how I can get anything done those days. Outside of my head, everything runs automatic. Instinct and acting.
On the floating days my own life seems so fuzzy, indistinguishable from the rest of the world. On the tiny days it seems too large to handle, it doesn’t fit under a macro lens. I’m zoomed too far in or too far out.
And yet here I sit, babbling without a clue as to what I’m going on about. Mais C’EST la vie, non?
With a clap of thunder outside, the world is back in focus for the time being. Better batten down the hatches at work.
Aussi, bon anniversaire à ma mère! Je t’aime!