I want to enter people's homes through the door of their souls. ( English Version of Je veux rentrer chez les gens par la porte de leur âme.)

I want to enter people's homes through the door of their souls.

-       Knock, knock!

-        Who’s there?

An adventuress who has lost her bearings and her compass seeking a moment of respite to update her emotional orientation.

Do not leave me on the landing, for I see a ray of your light peeking through the door frame of your inner being.

It's cold outside, in the ice of conventions that pierces me to the bone.

I shiver in my person’s skin, in my woman’s skin, painted with make-up, tired. My wrinkles are grooves dug by the tears I never wept.

Out of politeness, I swallow them back. Their salt on my tongue reminds me that I am alive and that I can satiate my belly with my pain.

Let me lay down my burden of overly polite hellos, strip myself of my appearances, wash away my fears, before entering the realm of your being.

I am tired of discerning your presence through screens, in front of which you surreptitiously see the image of your weariness reflected.

I am tired of only seeing you behind the over-washed windows of gigantic conference rooms where I feel very small.

I'm tired of creating a character to better relate to yours.

I don't want your pixelated beauty. Charm can only work its magic face to face.

The pigments of our personal painting are arranged in a very beautiful picture.

Our reds are on everyone's lips. Our bruises are bleeding with an ink tinted the dark hue of worry; they turn into angels as they aim towards the brightest part of the sky; because our springs are drawing close, even though we are in the autumn of our lives.

Even in winter, we colored outside the prescribed lines, the hue of the glorious summers of our hopes spreads beyond the imposed frames.

Our oranges turn oriental and call for spices. Our candy pinks of naughty girls stretch out in chewing gum bubbles. Like us, they are ready to burst out, to burst out laughing, this time; tears are transparent and have no place here.

Soul of this century, what festivities are you preparing behind your closed doors?

Go through the screens, spray a myriad of possibilities, like Alice once did on the other side of the mirror. Wonderland will manifest itself, for we are the wonders of our own land.

I want to enter people's homes through the door of their souls.

And if, like a burglar, I have to go through the window, then yes, I will do so, with the aim of not stealing anything but perhaps intent on disturbing, a little.

At your place, I want to shake out the carpets of routine. Dust will fly away; nothing will be in the same spot anymore. We will no longer be order-respecting people assigned to a place, but free electrons.

We will climb on top of tables; we will set down the fine China and sit on the floor to have a feast created out of our pooled human resources.

Make way for the light, reveal your sweet vices, those that console and allow you to live one extra little bit of a day, those that make life more bearable and death less frightening.

Get out your wines and your precious perfumes, the very perfumes that bother the people in the metro who want to blend in with the crowd, the Messrs. 

and Mesdames Trade -the- Common- Ground who come and go but never get anywhere. Put them on this very evening, these perfumes that remain when you're no longer there, these essences of being.

Tomorrow, we don't know what the day will bring, what smells of renunciation we will have to put up with, what color we will have to repaint our wings with. Surely, it will be with the gray of concrete, of boredom. It’s the color appropriate to fly low through the scenery.

Get out of the dresser drawers what undresses and distresses, because to please me, you must not skimp.

-         Knock, knock, who's there?

-         It’s the sand-rose seller.