When you burn, life happens in the street, in those footsteps that tread the asphalt while the heart sends its Morse code calls into the invisible.
When you’re burning what matters is the music in your ears, this new song by an artist whose music is not played on radio, even if of the passers-by few are present.
When you burn, over time, the combustion becomes stronger than the time, the cold. Words disappear, silence spreads like a filter on a photo, each color becomes more vivid.
When you burn, nothing matters anymore, sometimes, in front of you automatons, birds in cages. We learn to no longer want anything for them not from them.
In their own way perhaps, they burn with the same fire as the stars.
In their own way they dance in constellations that go beyond the street.
When you’re burning, tears often flow, sometimes your spine bends, sometimes you don’t have enough air.
But,
in the constant fusion of infinity and nothingness, there, in the veins, there is this inexhaustible reality:
be.
No, not something or someone, especially not.
Be.
In intransitive verb.
So thank you to the emptiness, to the cold, and above all thank you to life for making me again, always, constantly, turn around to face the sun.
In fire.