Late into the night

On a beautiful spring evening, everything was perfect and clear. I do as usual, I think of nothing in particular. In my comforting solitude, I watch my screen on a soft sofa, wrapped in a soft blanket, in the light of a subdued lamp. I continue to watch this program that started days ago without ever suspecting for a moment what might happen. Episode after episode, I continue my story, which takes place in an office of a company which sells paper. Sometimes funny, sometimes moving, sometimes absurd, sometimes embarrassing, which makes its interest. I arrive at the episode that triggers everything else. A pretty song that turns in the head until it ends. Useless, improbable, there is no reason for the elusive effect that the lyrics of a song I don't know, could lead me beyond dreams.

Why this obsession to want to know at all costs the title of a song. When you have found it, why stay there and not leave. A last song for a bewitching voice.

A soft music, an emotion and then suddenly a feeling that I did not wish, crosses my body to my thoughts that looks like an electric current, a shiver of endorphin that lasts little time, but seems to last an eternity. How can one imagine this winding path that crosses another path, having the certainty of a feeling without having sought it. How can one simply think about it. Prisoner of a dream that has no meaning. The derisory illusion that dreams to have an end. Every day until late at night, hundreds of discussions, places, dates, situations, beautiful landscapes that over time evolve to never stop, a story without end, but she is always there, perfect (in my eyes), beautiful, sweet, tender. A woman who can only exist in dreams.

I am rational and logical, I need answers to questions that have none. To seize a psychology that nobody knows. A state of mind that nobody understands. In assumptions of the one and theories of the other. We choose what we want or what we would like. Crossing the boundaries of emotions thinking every second she mocks, arrogant and also proud, as a defense that could allow me to find a solution. I decided, for me, the unthinkable to do things I never do. To go to places where I have never gone. Shy and very discreet, I don't even dare to think about it. Revealing feelings or just my thoughts was not even a possibility last spring. Maybe writing is the solution. Nothing will be as it was before, writing poems, stories, dreams, so as not to forget the incredible sensation of a tender look, a bewitching voice, a chilling shiver that runs through my whole being as if it were winter. To think that there will always be such a fragile hope that can break with every word I write, because it is very human to think about hope, but it is very human to break it. Hope, a fascinating thing that sometimes only holds on to a word, a gesture. Uncertainty is a hope sown with doubt by which the imagination distorts our judgment. Indifference is a cruel hope, which must be replaced by the truth. Fate is another form of hope that cannot be explained without being at the end of a story.

Thinking about destiny or has anything else. As Jean-Jacques Goldman said," those reasons that make our reasons vain those things, deep inside us, which keep us awake late into the night ".

How can I forget this striking image of an unreal person who can only walk, dance and sing in my dreams. The dream has no meaning except the one we give it, so 3, 2, 1, dreaming.