Pour mes diarrhées écrites

Elle détestait mourir l'après-midi. Elle disait qu'il aurait mieux valu ne pas se lever plutôt que de vivre ces monceaux de journée.

Elle n'utilisait plus le verbe « dormir » depuis longtemps. Elle pensait que « mourir » était plus approprié.
Elle n'était pourtant pas négativiste ou mélancolique pour un sou. Elle n'avait d'ailleurs jamais envisagé le suicide ; mais, elle le concevait aisément. Il y a de quoi préférer ne plus vivre à vivre sans cesse à moitié. Elle disait toujours « toutes ces nuits qu'on perd ».

Elle avait beau essayer de passer le moins de temps possible ainsi, sa nature humaine la rattrapait vite.
Mourir était nécessaire pour continuer de vivre. Et comme elle ne pouvait pas avoir peur, à chaque sommeil, de ne jamais se réveiller la même qu'on avait été ; elle n'avait plus peur de la Mort. Cela n'était plus rien qu'un somme prolongé.

Il détestait qu'elle parle ainsi. Il avait l'impression que mourir lui était alors indifférent, qu'elle se moquait de vivre à ses côtés. Il avait peur de finir seul éveillé.

Elle le perdait chaque nuit. Chaque fois que, ses paupières closes, elle en arrivait à ne plus contôler ce qu'elle pouvait penser. Elle disait qu'on était plus vraiment nous-mêmes une fois que les rêves s'en étaient emparés.

Elle mourut un matin de Juillet, à 80ans. Elle savait bien qu'elle finirait par ne plus se réveiller.
Il était mort depuis longtemps déjà, il n'aurait pas supporté d'être le dernier.

Little girl, naive, shy and awfully romantic.
He taught me how to do bullshit. How to make bubbles with gum, how to shout crude songs in toilets, how to love in silence.

He could be my lover, if I dared to open my mouth. I've learned that often one word is more worthy than the rest of the world, that one move is enough.
I had no trust, no faith anymore in myself.

Anyway, we grew together, in the same pot.

He was my brother.
He was my soulmate.
He was my spinal column.

I used to like his sweety voice. Like a pillow to quiet my muddled mind. To muffle my sharp-edged cries. To wipe my tears away. To make me feel less alone.
He was almost some of a part of myself.


When I passed him in the street, last Monday, ten years gone; I desperately noted that I had changed so much.

Once I was a lullaby.

I was on every lips.
Whistled by every tongue.

I was the tenderness that rocked babies.
I was the strength that made flowers grow.
I was kisses of lovers.
I was songs of mothers.

I was on every bench.
In every cradle.
On every smile.
In every breath.

I was the incarnated love.

A glopse of hope.
A sigh of time.

I already had a bad picture of family but I've never thought it could be worse.
Family is only here to oblige you to stay related to someone you couldn't even know, you couldn't even like.
I prefer friends.
The choice.
And I don't want to get married. I refuse.
The freedom.
I refuse to be obliged to stay, seeing feelings falling away, my body growing old and my mind boring more and more as you explain us the way we fell in love, no more desire for the one I used to love.
I don't want to be in charge of someone else when I'll choose to leave, to change, to live or to die.

Because I can't bear the charming prince and the “they lived happily together for ever and ever and.... BANG”.
Because I can't believe to love and couple...

You take part of the ones who “make love” whereas I often fuck.
I don't want a child. I don't a mini-me, like a face to see my faults each time I look at her eyes. Like a bad mirror which remembers you each second your mistakes.
I don't want a family, like slippers in which you used to huddle up and whose you feel obliged to wear now even if they're full of crap.
I don't want a family picture on my fire place. I only need sextoys.

I don't want a loyal and lovely husband but only someone who gives me the illusion to be useful and who makes me feel what I'm not able to obtain alone.

I'm sure you couldn't fuck somebody.
You need feelings, to give something to someone who is worth it.
You could be a 45years-old princess stuck in her fucking keep, still believing to this asshole with his white warhorse.

I don't know exactly what I want, and what I need, but I couldn't wear your values, they're just too narrow. I refuse to be one of those who turn round with regrets and continue to walk, with heavy steps sinking into the asphalt.

No, I'll not be alone. You know how much I could hate it.

I want to vibrate, to burst, to burn.
You're offering me a cutty cushion in red velvet to calm down when I just want to moove.
I know we can't run all our life but, from now, I refuse to stop.

I need men with minds as huge as their trousers. Who prefer long hair to virility. Crude who know how use tenderness. Unforeseeable. Imaginative. Fiery.
Fire in the hand.

You are so nice that you become boring.
Still the same tons, the same expressions, the same smile, the same face.
Platonic.
If I stayed here with you, one morning, even before you fell anxious or worried, I could be out, putting thumb up, waiting for someone faster than you.
I know I could love you so much, but, I'm sorry, I don't know how long for.

I'm not one you could keep here, like a precious jewel, closed in a trunk you ate the key. I'm a flower which fade without oxygen.
I could stay if you promise me to let me go.
Paradoxical?
As you want.

Take the best of me in the time allotted to you or decide not to taste my flesh if you don't accept the terms.

He slamed the door.


She was crying now. After anger, despair. After devastating hurricane, bitter silence.
She realized that she will be and probably finish her life alone.
She was only angry to convince him of her darkness, to leave her. But, she had mainly done it to him.

She knew she could be happy for a time. She knew he could be happy. But, still the same problem. How fucking long for ?
She was like these womanizers who try to believe each time that they'll love them, that they are the wife of their life.
But, each time, one morning, they wake up with this bitter taste in mouth.
The taste of boredom.


She was nacked, looking at herself in the mirror, trying to convince herself that she could be this beautiful housewife, decently dressed, with cleaned house, sweety child.

Desperate, she slipped into her dress night and slided slowly in her bed. She loved the smell of fresh washed sheets.
She hates sleeping alone. She bent down to look under the bed. This night, she'll sleep with him. Sweety Pooky, the one she's sure to always love, the one she know she can't hurt.
Lovely Pooky. Faithful Pooky.
Unhuman Pooky...

She didn't know how she should be anymore.

Pendant quelques minutes, elle continua d'avancer mais n'habitait plus son corps. Flottait.
Spectatrice.
Comme ces plans interminables, filmés en steadicam, projetés en ralentis.

Elle montait l'escalier de l'amphithéatre. Elle le savait de ce côté. Cela faisait déjà deux heures qu'elle l'observait dans le reflet de son écran d'ordinateur. L'avantage d'un miroir unilatéral.

Comme si elle ne gravissait les marches que pour mieux croiser son regard. Le temps s'arrêtait au fur et à mesure. Plus de bruits autour. Plus qu'une toile sonore uniforme, comme le fond utérin. Lovée. On n'est plus qu'une jambe qui se fléchit sur une marche d'escalier.

Et puis, arrivée à sa hauteur. Il reprend son cours, ce salopard de temps. Ces petites farces que la vie vous fait. Plus que deux êtres vivants et 249 sièges innocupés.
Accélération.

Elle ne trouve pas les mots. Toutes les voyelles, consonnes, noms, verbes, phrases, avec ou sans ponctuation. Rien de chez rien. Ca s'entrechoque là haut. Comme des auto-temponneuses dégénérées.
Ca longe les murs de sa pie-mère, ça se noit dans le liquide céphalo-rachidien, ça fait des bulles derrière ses pupilles vertes.
Et elle passe son chemin.

Hésite à entrer de nouveau dans la pièce vide. Honte. Peur. File. Espère.

Les gens n'acquièrent d'importance que celle qu'on avait à accorder quand dans notre vie, ils sont arrivés.

Dans le froid du couloir, sans son regard posé sur elle ; elle se sentait seule. Parcourue de frissons. Dedans.

Vivre dans les yeux d'un homme.
Les plus beaux des miroirs sont ceux qu'on ne sait où trouver.