Words, stories, emotions...
I've been diving. The terrain is unknown to me but the temperature is pleasant and I am not cold at all. I'm so happy that I don't feel like going back to the surface. Oxygen is abundant, I breathe full lungs and my mind is perfectly lucid.
It's not dark at all, the light is even rather beautiful. So I wonder if I'd better stay here a little longer. It's true after all, why try to find the air from the outside when what happens here in the depths gives me so much happiness?
I've been diving. As every day, I donned my equipment as a curious and passionate reader and I joined the abyss of this wonderful novel. Like an experienced apnea skipper who descends slowly but surely into the depths of the ocean, I have also spun page by page through the abyss of history.
There are days when the current is too strong and it would be far too risky to move away from the surface. On those days, I chose lighter readings. Stories that make a little less use of my head and body, but which nevertheless remain fascinating and enriching.
Words are the mysterious passers-by of the soul.
Victor Hugo - Victor Hugo
Words are everywhere, aren't they? Can we spend a day without crossing their path? Is it possible to resist their powers? I don't think so, and then we wouldn't be here today if the words didn't exist.
Once again, I went down. It was a few days ago, I don't know when. I had laid my towel on the beach, the tide was high and the sunshine warmed my forehead. While I was reading my book, a light breeze would occasionally lift the top right corner of my current page.
Strange as it may seem, given where I was, it was hard for me to concentrate on reading. I regularly lifted my head up to smell the air and watch the waves coming in tirelessly breaking on the sand. From time to time, a couple of lovers used to pass along the shore.
I wasn't the only reader that day. A little further behind me, a woman seemed to be carried away by the story she was holding in her hands. She was sitting in the sand, her back leaning against a wooden board, her face turned towards the sun.
From time to time I would lift up the eyes of my book to take a quick look in its direction. What book could she possibly read? What was she thinking when we were almost alone on the beach? I can't answer these questions, so I imagine stories.
Dear ocean, I'm getting to know you well. Every day spent at your side is a joy and you always manage to surprise me. Even when you decide to take it out on me when I fall off my surfboard and take me into your powerful rollers, I still love you so much.
Sometimes I find it hard to get my breath back because you're agitated. You make me wobble in all directions, but I still find you extremely warm.
Tell me, what's your secret? Or rather no, don't say anything, so I will keep thinking about you over and over again. Keep this mystery and my eyes will sparkle every time I find you.
I wonder what it would feel like to be in contact with your friend. You know, the one who often looks at you from above? Yes, she, the mountain. What story would she have to tell me? What are her words? What's his language? Do you know him? Would you blame me if I went to ask him?
I'm sure it would also make me want to tell stories. Because words, again and again...
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Absolutely wonderfully done. Thank you for sharing. I enjoyed it very much.
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