Mardi 19 juin 2012 à 14:58

- Les épines, à quoi servent-elles ?
- ...
- Les épines, à quoi servent-elles ??
- Les épines, ça ne sert à rien. C'est de la pure méchanceté de la part des fleurs.

Le Petit Prince

M i z o r e S h i r a y u k i

Vendredi 20 mai 2011 à 11:24

Let's believe that I will make it.
Mizore Shirayuki
by HeroDees
(On DeviantArt)


Vendredi 6 mai 2011 à 12:03

Ces vitraux, ces statues façonnées avec ferveur,
Ces murs érigés par la force des hommes et de leur foi,
Ces offrandes, ces récits..

Ces pierres impregnées de sang et de larmes,
Ces arabesques et ces lignes vertigineuses,
Ces dorures et  ces cierges qui brûlent comme autant d'étoiles...

Cette assemblée silencieuse,
Ces murmures et ces prières...

Tout semble différent, ici.
Comme si ce monde de silence
n'avait plus rien à voir
avec le vacarme de la vie au-delà des portes de verre.


Il faut vraiment que j'arrête de squatter cette église.

The Dream.

Vendredi 25 février 2011 à 20:28

   But my dreaming self refuses to be consoled. It continues to wander, aimless, homeless, alone. It cannot be convinced of its safety by any evidence drawn from my waking life. I know this because I continue to have the same dream, over and over.
   I'm in the other place, a place that's familiar to me, although I've never lived in it or even seen it except in this dream. Details vary -the space has many different rooms, mostly bare of furniture, some with only the sub-flooring- but it always contains the steep, narrow straiway of that distant apartment. Somewhere in it, I know -as I open door after door, walk through corridor after corridor- I'll come upon the gold mirror, and also the green satin bedspread, which has taken on a life of its own and is able to morph into cushions, or sofas, or armchairs, or even -once- a hammock.
   It's always dusk, in this place; it's always a cool dank summer evening. This is where I'll have to live, I think in the dream. I'll have to be all by myself, forever. I've missed the life that was supposed to be mine. I've shut myself off from it. I don't love anyone. Somewhere, in one of the rooms I haven't yet entered, a small child is imprisoned. It isn't crying or wailing, it stays completely silent, but I can feel its presence there.
   Then I wake up, and retrace the steps of my dream, and try to shake off the sad feeling it's left me with. Oh yes, the other place, I say to myself. That again. There was quite a lot of space in it, this time. It wasn't so bad.

Margaret Atwood,
Moral Disorder,
"The Other Place".


"I was not an orphan."

Vendredi 25 février 2011 à 19:16

I was not an orphan, I told myself; I was not nearly enough of an orphan. I needed to be more of one, so I could eat food that was bad for me, stay up all night, wear unflattering clothes, and hang out with unsuitable companions without the anxious running commentary this behavior would call forth inside my head. Why are you living in this dump ? What are you doing with your time ? Why are you with that creep ? Why can't you accomplish anything ?
Get enough sleep ! You'll ruin your health ! Wear less black !

Margaret Atwood,
Moral Disorder,
"The Other Place".

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