It is quite pathetic to watch people drink alcohol while partying, during the great ritual of socialization. The show always begins with good intentions, various attentions and codified politeness, to better prepare for the festivities, excesses and very personal abuses. To do this, we must nurture the hope of a slow but certain decline, and savor each glass that comes along.
We then gradually feel the venom after the bite of the African black mamba, which slowly makes its way to the brain. For sure suffering dresses one up sir, it envelops the soul in a thousand mutes, and it avoids being naked. We can see all the sincere motivations, each going from his own impetus, from his need to be modified, well altered, uninhibited, controlling little, to start again as a conqueror or else fallen.
In some cases we get close to neurosis, there's desire to get over with it as quickly as possible, while in others it is more subtle and less blatant, it similarly contributes to the need to annihilate oneself. Suffering always finds its compensations, it's true, obviously.
It always starts gently and sweetly. Then the flow inevitably accelerates under the effect of the intoxicating substance, like a three-beat waltz playing its own, to leave plenty of room for the desired effects, all the inaccuracies and approximations. We look for sincerity in the words, we try hard, but it is not entirely believable because we are too full of ourselves. The decibels must also be part of it, and find their place, while competing with the need to assert oneself and always exist a little more too. There is little concern for politeness. We cut ourselves off to impose our style and our exhilarated ego, all dressed in pale, in order to find our place at the center of ramblings and sterile action, as it should be, full of enthusiasm, inattention and dizzyness.
The conversation then becomes commonplace, repeats itself and then intersects. We accompany each other to be likewise, supportive and muddy at the same time, it allows us to fraternize, superficially. #letsgetdrunk. It's the one who speaks first and the loudest, who runs the fastest, and then holds the baton for as long as possible. It no longer requires any charisma, just a certain sense of the ebb abd flow of the tide. It's all about the evangelist or the boss of a tobacco bar, it’s all about the art of making your way in muscles, in vulgar authority.
Common sense and elegance are no longer required, no longer fully functional, nor fully operational. We are content to revolve around the same subject, to tire it out, to wear it out. It's already something, because it does not matter what is poured out.
A whole evening repeating one’s crap while seeking attention. We are there for the merry-go-round, the sensation and distraction. Some choose bungee jumping, while others prefer to leave their turn to the highest bidder, the most desperate one, and the most ambitious. To each his own discipline. It is no longer a question of measure but that of the quest for the great thrill, we are in the great debacle. Then we open another bottle, another little glass and we go. It's for the road, to end it once and for all.
We are now in a station hall where all the echoes of the world resonate and where everything collides, telescopes and jostles. Regardless, we're not here to string beads anymore. It makes its way or it breaks, and the subtlety of things gives way to the vulgarity of the din and the instincts of death. We then enter the great bullfight, the matador prepares his fatal sword stroke, the crowd cries out for blood, the spectators are on their knees.
We do not even have the luxury of taking a last little one, because all the stocks are exhausted, squandered, already gone up in smoke, too quickly consumed and without privacy. We kept our distance, we flew over the place without being able to create much communion. We were there to listen to ourself. It's all over again. We redo it later, as soon as we get our senses together. We are happy when we have succeeded in keeping our dignity intact, when we have not wavered too much, nor tutubed too much, that we have not been too disgusted, and that we have not said too much bullshit. It would be unfortunate. We can then hope to find our way back to bed, to sleep our dead body all soaked with alcohol vapors and smells, and make way for the harsh and sonorous snoring, semi-released, deactivated consciousness.
But everything is already working out, I'm singing and I'm happy. Friend please fill my glass, friend fill my glass again…
There are evenings when the whistles of the ropes in the wind repel the odors of nostalgia and despair. We would then like to tell great stories.
WE WILL DO IT LATER, WHEN EVERYBODY WILL BE GONE...
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