This is about a lesson and an observation.
One summer evening. The end of a great summer.
I was there in my bath, thinking of the events of the evening. The dim light gave a romantic aspect to ceramic tile walls. I could see two faces kissing. Finally, with a good imagination, a ceramic tile to marble patterns may conceal a wealth of images. One of these nights when we say that all is well anyway, he must face life head down, but ultimately it was decided to forge ahead, but looking straight ahead. It's amazing what you can think fearless in the heat of a fire in the darkness of the night. I stared
the wall. It would really says an old French couple who were kissing on each tile. All the tiles. The water was too cold. The fire had he perhaps been a little too hot ...
twigs. There were twigs. Great detail and a timid fire. Papers without burning importance. I realized at that moment that this atmosphere comes alive in the same way every time. It's like that in a world where people find the magic fire. It's been long moments of silence peaceful. Deep thoughts, songs that pass through the head, eyes that stick on his neck to see in the reflection of flames. It makes beautiful moments. I was not sure sometimes if I listened more voices or lyrics. I listen better left unsaid. But most attention. Perfect then, all the ingredients were combined.
The mind wandered a fine mess to another. Trying to find remedy for malicious mysteries. I communicate well, all at once. But I listened, mostly. And so much the better. A sentence. As a figure appears in a pattern. A double sense subliminal. Between two beautiful quotations, an uprising of ideas, I went to my important papers and scribbled a few words. The author came to life. I picked out each word, wrote down the whispers of the muse surgically. Éloignant peu à peu mes pensées du long combat à venir. Le feu brûlait. Il était fascinant. Le feu. Le penseur de la phrase aussi. J'étais fascinée, tout simplement. Un petit bout de conversation limite scientifique, qui prend forme de crédo pour la guerre. Sorti du contexte, dans les oreilles d'une écrivaine qui veut vivre, sur le bord d'un feu...
"N'essaie pas d'écrire ce qu'est le feu, brûle ta feuille plutôt et constate comme c'est beau!"
Froidement, j'aurais simplement noté la citation et y aurait vu le même sens. Mais c'est difficile le stoïcisme quand LA phrase est dite au bon moment, au bon endroit, par la bonne personne. Le cœur flanche. It's a great lesson but not forget the finding. After writing these few words, I found that there was one of the nicest things I heard. I was more fascinated. A mystery had fallen.
The water was now too cold. My skin smelled of soap "the cat". A good old soap purchased in Paris who came to give credibility to the olfactory scene that looked like a French movie. I exited the water and dressed me warmly: I was cold. It was the beginning of the end of a great summer. I was happy. With the soul in this beautiful phrase full of meaning for me, and heart I could not deny. I am lying near the big white cat, under the warm quilt. My hair smelled of fire. I closed my eyes to this mystery once more, knowing that morning he had disappeared. No more unanswered questions, it was so simple background. I loved her. For nothing. I just loved him.
