A paradise where the only thing that's intrinsic is your head

In a boat filled with a hundred people, you're alone. Fucking with some two-legged modern being, you're still alone. Pregnant or on an island with some rum, an alcoholic pirate and a one bullet gun, you're alone again. Don't be afraid, it's the best high on earth. You're a creation, but at the same time you're a creator, the best critique regarding what is good and bad. Unlike the rose, which grows and blooms and simply lives without asking itself if this or that is the best way to do things, or if its petals are red or yellow, if the Little Prince does look like a dickhead or not, some actions, depending on your values, will satisfy you and some won't help you reach a goal you fixed. Same shit, different day. Chaos is order, movement is immutable. People come and go, you can't rely on them to fulfill your dreams and make you reach the climax of happiness in a direct way. Some sweats (yes, sweats) taste like heaven and some sweats are definitely questionable sweets (because, it leads to dramatic and romantic bullshit, but then, it's your choice to decide if this bullshit is valuable or not). Being an individual you have to be independent and accept this freedom to forge ahead, take only what you need from others, but you are wasted and fucked if others become the only rational answer.

la fin: vaincre

Voici, le bout, pourtant le début.
il y a la chuchuchute, il y a l'étincelle.
ce qui vient de commencer a commencé bien avant le début et finira quand on en décidera.
regardons devant, vers l'infini.
ayons peur, dans l'infini.
surmontons ce gouffre, ensemble.
ou non. je me tiens par la main.
je regarde au fond: aussi loin que je peux voir,
et je me dis: voila, c'est fini.

In your eyes

L'infinité se flétrie au rebord de tes yeux.
L'extase s’estompe et il ne reste plus ...
Que quelques murmures discrets, qu'une envie connue mais muette.
La poésie maladroite ...

ne veut plus rien dire.

Non.
Elle dit mal.
Au rebord de tes yeux.
Tout s'efface et le silence s'installe.
J'aime à oublier, que jamais je n'ai vécu sous la courbe de tes yeux.
Paul Éluard disparaît.
Les mots, ralentis et mous, s'envolent.
Enfin la liberté ...
Oui.
C'est être libre que de t'aimer sans mot.