Faible Neige

A soft, long mantle of snow lays in front of me. The fog envelops the surroundings, and though I am unable to trace as much as the contours of the horizon, my steps proceed on firm ground, making no sound, as in a dream.

I have been absorbed into a life that is all too foreign to memory, but familiar to my inner self. Falling comfortably into routine, days flow without a trace, if not for the serendipitous moments of happiness found in the study of languages. The net separation between my personal and social life seems irrevocable. I find no other key to untangle my incongruous personality, but for once I manage to get a glimpse of my own imago, rather than shaky carbon copies of something else. Only one voice sings occasionally into my mind. This voice I like very much, but I am afraid I cannot get closer, given my precedents. I must learn to listen first, not to people but into people.

In the mean time, my mind is busy at the workplace and at home. The next cut is in two months, and I have to figure out something. The thought of not having the slightest idea of where I will end up in spring is neither terrifying nor enticing. I don’t really feel much, except the absence of stone. Europe is made of stone. Sometimes I miss it.


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