L'absent
À ma manière 🪦
- Aug 18, 2024
- 1,238
To avoid feeling the void,
human beings invent achievements,
chasing after calendars and celebrations,
as if time weren't already devouring them.
They cling to hands sweaty with meaning,
exchanging promises
that the wind scatters before they can ever be kept.
To not succumb to their own insignificance,
they build walls of words,
create sophisticated anxieties,
convince themselves that their pain is unique,
that their existence is a dense tapestry of events
and not just a meaningless parenthesis in the chaos.
To not recognize their own fragility,
they construct papier-mâché identities,
masks with which to face the world,
pretending to be more than flesh awaiting decomposition.
They persuade themselves that they have a role,
a purpose, a meaning,
when they are merely distracted spectators of a play
without beginning or end.
To avoid seeing their own shadow,
they cling to dogmas, causes, passions,
playing the hero, the devotee, the revolutionary,
as if history were a river that remembers
and not a vortex that swallows everything without a trace.
To not admit that their love
is merely a reflection of need,
they invent eternal bonds,
turn solitude into loyalty,
the fear of abandonment into devotion,
and call it all emotion.
To avoid seeing themselves for what they are,
they gaze into the eyes of others,
seeking validation, applause, adoration,
as if a reflection could give substance
to what has never had any.
And so, between rituals, worries, and convictions,
human beings spend their lives
evading the simplest of truths:
they are nothing,
but they do everything to never realize it.
human beings invent achievements,
chasing after calendars and celebrations,
as if time weren't already devouring them.
They cling to hands sweaty with meaning,
exchanging promises
that the wind scatters before they can ever be kept.
To not succumb to their own insignificance,
they build walls of words,
create sophisticated anxieties,
convince themselves that their pain is unique,
that their existence is a dense tapestry of events
and not just a meaningless parenthesis in the chaos.
To not recognize their own fragility,
they construct papier-mâché identities,
masks with which to face the world,
pretending to be more than flesh awaiting decomposition.
They persuade themselves that they have a role,
a purpose, a meaning,
when they are merely distracted spectators of a play
without beginning or end.
To avoid seeing their own shadow,
they cling to dogmas, causes, passions,
playing the hero, the devotee, the revolutionary,
as if history were a river that remembers
and not a vortex that swallows everything without a trace.
To not admit that their love
is merely a reflection of need,
they invent eternal bonds,
turn solitude into loyalty,
the fear of abandonment into devotion,
and call it all emotion.
To avoid seeing themselves for what they are,
they gaze into the eyes of others,
seeking validation, applause, adoration,
as if a reflection could give substance
to what has never had any.
And so, between rituals, worries, and convictions,
human beings spend their lives
evading the simplest of truths:
they are nothing,
but they do everything to never realize it.
