We are never deceived; we deceive ourselves.
It was such a mystery, this mixture of feeling, where sorrow touched something that was undeniably positive and good.
Je veux être ton Idéale ,
La lueur d’or dans tes nuits angoissées
Une nymphe sortie d’un rêve amoral
Éphémère mais vive, plus qu’un mirage rêvé
J’en ai assez des étreintes amicales .
Je n’peux dormir ce soir encore
tu hantes mes moindres sursauts d’âme ,
Laissons de côtés les sourds…
Art is dangerous, it touches you in forgotten places, it’s an incarcerated object of desire and makes the pain of existing worth it.
Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.