It transpires that, like all idiots who have more of a career than a future, I must work, if only to carry on renting a rotten piece of carpet and a toilet block on the brink of collapse belonging to my poisonous landlord. As for me, I have an eye for detail and I’m a great lover of sealife, and so, in order to combine utility with pleasure, and despite the careers advisor’s prediction of a factory career, I became a dishwasher in a restaurant in the centre of town.
Between the midday and the evening table service, I go round in circles like a kind of human pet, my neighbourhood too far away to be able to stop. So to keep myself busy, I (become tame) as I sketch out a material happiness on each shop window, the suspension of my banking privileges replacing my heart. As if putting things into bonds could ever fill the void of human existence. A storm brews and my voice bursts with pride. There’s nothing left but to stroll at a leisurely pace to the rhythm of the overcrowded bus-shelter, its benches christened by pigeons to assert my power, my arse acting as emissary and the large bomber jacket on my back like an occupational army. From this rock in the middle of the urban sea, my sense of truth and I are fair judges of the odd puppet-like specimens (affranchis) with views on everything and nothing, always expressed out loud.
Text : Souklaye - Translation : Sophie IngeLire la suite