Loser Looser

I ran down the street and thought to myself, Wajdi Mouawad a dit: “l’enfance est un couteau planté dans la gorge. On ne le retire pas facilement.” Je dis plutôt que la vie est un couteau planté dans la gorge. On ne le retire pas. On ne le retire pas et on pense à ce qui arriverait si on le faisait. Si on arrêtait le tout. Ça ne prendrait qu’un moment de courage, et le sang coulerait, coulerait, coulerait, le vomi rouge envahissant le monde des confusions, enrobant les questions de la réponse la plus évidente, pourquoi ces angoisses? Le sang nettoie tout. Le sang efface le couteau. Et ça ne prendrait qu’un moment de courage. En attendant, on suffoque, on s’étrangle, on s’entortille, on respire juste assez pour garder le couteau enfoncé, on espère qu’un autre couteau nous charcute et on pleure, on sanglote. On veut partir, mais le couteau nous retient, on sanglote.
We are all losers after all. Loosen up to what we think we want. Loosen up to what we wish we had. Loosen up to what is not there. We lose at the end. Loosen up to find out that you have lost. Loosen up. Loosen up to so much and yet so private. It’s hard to talk, especially when the words are haunted. It’s hard to talk, especially when you have to fight against yourself. It’s hard to talk, especially since the knife is stuck inside. Since the tears can’t wash it away. Live with it, live with the knife in your throat, live with the words that will perish hanging to the knife, those words that will never pass the knife, they will never make it. Live with it, deal with it.