Don’t move.

At the precise moment I’m writing this, there’s nothing I want less than to make you uncomfortable with me. I know « pity » is a word that is never clearly pronounced when I let people perceive me, or rather when I can’t prevent them from seeing me.

I work on my scars, I press them, burn the few skin that was left sane, just to reach what I feel as the necessary movement of consciousness to widen it. That’s not really what we are taught to do to become. But I can’t stop thinking that to become, I need to be first. Whatever « be » means. Life was generous with me. It gave me so many scars, that I can spend the whole of it on the half of my scars. I know I can’t control the interpretation of these few words. Sometimes, it makes me smile, sometimes, it makes me cry. Sometimes both. Being on Moebius’ Strip. I try hard not to move when I come at that instant. If you see me, unmoving, please, don’t touch me unless you accept to come with me on Moebius’ Strip, don’t try to bring me back. It would tear me a little more. I would need it, but not now.

You’ll burn me one day, don’t be so impatient.