The quiet life

The era calls for big words, big postures, big chin movements. The din of arms, in the heart of Europe, leads the presidential candidates, already in full security escalation, to compete with shocking formulas and proposals supposed to beef up their “regular” profile (decidedly fashionable word). It’s fair game, if I dare say, as, according to the polls, the need for protection is growing. But these male accents, these bugle calls and these drum rolls have a price. Isn’t this race to who will speak the loudest silencing everything that is so precious to us, that is even essential to us, the very fabric of our lives?

I want to praise whispers in low voices, confidences in the ear, words that come up against hesitations, suspension points, what is so fragile, as if balanced on a thread, which stealthily creeps through the snow, noiselessly, full of mystery and revelations to come. I want to praise the softness, the delicacy, the sketched gestures, what we hardly dare to say, that we are content to suggest, like timid plays of light through the leaves. I want to talk about those who don’t bring her back, who quietly hum old nursery rhymes. I want to talk about everything that gives us the happiness of living. Anything that doesn’t make noise. And which is life itself.


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