Je badine, je rigole, je radote \u00e0 profusion. J\u2019ai souvent l\u2019impression d\u2019\u00e9crire comme si j\u2019\u00e9tais en phase terminale. Comme si je voulais tout dire avant de partir; tarir mon puits de jolies phrases et m\u2019enfuir. La chair des mots a toujours \u00e9t\u00e9 ma terre natale, l\u00e0 o\u00f9 toute r\u00e9alit\u00e9 prend naissance, l\u00e0 o\u00f9 ce matin mes doigts us\u00e9s essaient de coudre ensemble des espoirs trou\u00e9s, une biographie mille fois rapi\u00e9c\u00e9e.<\/p>\n
J\u2019avance et j\u2019implore CHRONOS, le dieu du temps qui s\u2019\u00e9coule. Des tr\u00e9fonds de l\u2019\u00e2ge, ce fils de Zeus va-t-il me r\u00e9pondre? Je m\u2019incline et je supplie tous les bonzes du Panth\u00e9on. Mes griffures d\u2019encre noire sont une longue revendication, une pri\u00e8re pour mon c\u0153ur assoiff\u00e9 d\u2019amour.<\/p>\n
J\u2019ai jadis voulu aimer et j\u2019ai d\u00fb traverser le mur barbel\u00e9 des lamentations. Tant bien que mal, je cherchais un peu d\u2019affection. Dieu merci, aux \u00e9tudes comme en affaires, j\u2019avais cette bienheureuse propension \u00e0 avancer droit devant. Le ciel, je suppose, m\u2019aide \u00e0 ne jamais me sentir toute seule ici-bas. Toujours, toujours, quelques anges me d\u00e9roulent un tapis volant; un aigle me lance quelques plumes et j\u2019\u00e9cris ma v\u00e9rit\u00e9.<\/p>\n
Contente de quitter le royaume des r\u00eaves. J\u2019adore le faci\u00e8s rosi de l\u2019aurore. Dans ma grande cuisine, je compte mes b\u00e9n\u00e9dictions. Je m\u2019extasie. Combien de jours me reste-t-il pour peinturlurer mes derniers d\u00e9sirs? Je m\u2019agenouille et je prie pour que la moissonneuse m\u2019oublie au lieu de m\u2019occire. Mon c\u0153ur s\u2019immisce entre les lignes; mon ardeur harmonise les rimes.<\/p>\n
Je badine, je rigole, j\u2019imagine mon corps outrageusement fl\u00e9tri nageant en plein oc\u00e9an. Qui donc l\u2019am\u00e8nera sur la rive paradisiaque de l\u2019\u00e9ternit\u00e9? Une baleine pourrait grignoter mes chairs. Je tremble et j\u2019ai peur qu\u2019elle avale aussi mon c\u0153ur. Que l\u2019on me jette en pitance \u00e0 la terre, que l\u2019on cache mes mots dans les veines des ruisseaux!<\/p>\n
Mes doigts frissonnent, mais ils foncent dans ces bienheureux matins d\u2019\u00e9criture. Ils remontent l\u2019aiguille du temps \u00e0 leur guise. Ils utilisent les heures comme si elles \u00e9taient des minutes gratuites dans un parcom\u00e8tre. Dans son gros bol, le temps m\u00e9lange les \u00e9tapes de ma grouillante vie.<\/p>\n
Lorsque j\u2019allume ma tablette, une gerbe d\u2019\u00e9tincelles jaillit d\u2019une phrase \u00e0 demi compl\u00e8te. C\u2019est mon truc \u00e0 moi pour ne jamais perdre le chemin d\u2019une histoire d\u00e9but\u00e9e la veille. Ainsi, ce matin, je m\u2019empresse de d\u00e9crire les derni\u00e8res coul\u00e9es volcaniques de mon c\u0153ur. Une nu\u00e9e ardente de d\u00e9sirs ass\u00e8che l\u2019encre noire de mes mots. Je m\u2019imagine quitter ce monde sans attache ni regret, sans cadavre ni feuillet.<\/p>\n
Devant ma page lumineuse, je r\u00e9fl\u00e9chis. Ce matin, comme chaque jour, mes doigts muets plient et d\u00e9plient des dizaines de brouillons d\u2019\u00e9criture. Ils biffent, ils raturent, ils effacent puis ils tapent et tapent de bons mots jusqu\u2019\u00e0 vider l\u2019aurore de tous ses r\u00eaves \u00e9veill\u00e9s.<\/p>\n
Immanquablement, de nouvelles phrases planent et volettent \u00e0 travers les nuages. Elles touchent la cime des montagnes, fr\u00f4lent les aigles, cognent \u00e0 la porte des anges et implorent la b\u00e9n\u00e9diction d\u2019en haut. Quand pourrai-je m\u2019envoler? Le globe tourne, tourne, mais la vie est toujours une seule fois v\u00e9cue.<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Je badine, je rigole, je radote \u00e0 profusion. J\u2019ai souvent l\u2019impression d\u2019\u00e9crire […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":40365,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-40364","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"I dillydally, I have fun, I ramble on. I often feel like I\u2019m writing as if I were taking my final breaths; as if I want to write everything before departing, dry up my well of nicely written sentences and then escape. The flesh of words has always been my motherland, where reality is born, where, this morning, my worn fingers try to sow torn hopes together; a life story that\u2019s been patched a thousand times.\r\n\r\nI keep going and plead with Chronos, the god of passing hours. From the depths of time, will this son of Zeus answer me? I bow and beg all the divine beings of the Pantheon. My black inked lines form a long appeal, a prayer for my heart parched for love.\r\n\r\nOnce I wanted to love and had to cross over the wailing wall with its barbed wire. I searched for a bit of affection in my own way. Thank heavens, I was blessed with the drive to push straight ahead in my studies and business. It seems heaven has watched over me so I never feel alone on earth. A few angels unfailingly unfurl a flying carpet, an eagle throws a few feathers my way and I write my truth.\r\n\r\nI\u2019m glad to leave the kingdom of dreams. I love the rosy face of dawn. In my large kitchen, I count my blessings. I\u2019m amazed. How many days do I have left to hastily paint my last desires? I kneel and pray for the great reaper to forget me, not take me. My heart slides between the lines, my ardour arranges the rhymes.\r\n\r\nI dillydally, I have fun, I imagine my outrageously withered body swimming in the ocean. Who will take it to the paradisiacal shore of eternity? A whale could snack on my flesh. I tremble and worry that it may also swallow my heart. Please throw me in the earth as pittance, hide my words in the veins of streams!\r\n\r\nMy fingers shiver, but they charge into these blissful mornings of writing. They throw back the hands of time as they see fit. They use the hours like free minutes in a parking meter. In a big bowl, time mixes the chapters of my busy life.\r\n\r\nWhen I turn on my tablet, a spray of sparks shoots from a half-complete sentence. It\u2019s a trick I use so I never lose the trail of a story I started the day before. And so this morning, I hurry to describe the last volcanic flows of my heart. A fiery cloud of desire dries up the black ink of my words. I imagine leaving this world without anything holding me back \u2013 no regrets, no cadaver and no notepads.\r\n\r\nI ponder in front of the glowing page. This morning like every morning, my mute fingers fold and unfold dozens of drafts. They strikethrough, erase and then tap and tap away until emptying the dawn of all its waking dreams.\r\n\r\nWithout fail, new sentences hover and fly between the clouds. They touch the peaks of mountains, brush against eagles, knock at the doors of angels and ask the heavens\u2019 blessing. When will I be able to fly away? The globe turns and turns, but life can only ever be lived once.\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n