«Where the body cannot go, the mind permits »

It's late, and I felt like writing. Honestly, I'm not sure what I'm going to tell you, but I feel like I have a mountain of things to say. Things that aren't important. Questions, sensations. In short, just the problems of the living...

There's something I struggle to explain. I can't cry. Not really, I mean. Sure, there's this tightness in my throat, as if someone tied a knot. And there are a few tears from time to time. But I can't cry tears of grief. I want to, though. Often, actually. But I can't let go like I want to. It's as if I'm showing modesty towards myself. It's silly because I'm sure it would relieve me of an invisible burden that weighs down my thoughts and prevents me from thinking clearly. Paradoxically, and it's contradictory, I feel like my heart has turned into a sponge. A song, a beautiful phrase, a smile from Sacha. I'm moved by the slightest thing. The other day, we were outside, it was night, and Sacha pointed at a star. He said it was you and that you were watching over us. I didn't understand what happened to me. An explosion of emotions. Torn between the deep sadness that he will never know you as I know you, and the immense pride that my son, who was only 4 years old when you left, remembers you.

I don't know if it's your passing that's causing this effect on me or if it's simply because I'm getting older, but I feel like my brain is working overtime on subjects that didn't interest me at all a year or two ago. For example, despite being grounded, I enjoy trying to believe that you still exist somewhere... Obviously, this isn't about talking about any deity that needs to be worshiped for entry into heaven or hell. But the essence of imagination is precisely to be able to escape mentally, where the body can't go, right? So yes, imagination is a thing of the living... But if we can dissociate our body and our mind while we're alive, what would prevent us from doing it once we're dead? Yeah, I know, it's a bit far-fetched, as they say. But you know, we hold on to whatever we can. Until recently, I found it silly to believe in anything that isn't verifiable (while respecting everyone's right to believe in whatever they want, of course). And now I understand that it provides reassurance in many ways. Especially in dealing with grief by lessening the damage that's already substantial... I convince myself that I'll see you again someday, even if it's entirely unverifiable, I'm starting to believe it. So, I'm not quite sure anymore if I'm a staunch atheist, but why not, let's say... a hesitant agnostic.

My envisioned future was taken away from me. That future where you age at the same pace as our children grow up. That future where our children become friends. That future where Sunday lunch barbecues, during which we rehash the same youth memories over and over again, become a tradition just like Monday night dinners were. That future where, when we're old, sitting in the shade of a terrace with a beer in hand, we look at our kids with pride and say that, in the end, we didn't really mess up our lives.

And it's because deep down, I have this glimmer of hope of seeing you again, because I want to believe that one day, we'll be able to make dirty jokes again, ogle girls in skirts on a summer day, lay parquet at McFly's or install shelves at my place. Because I hope to be able to show you pictures of my growing son. Solely because I have this glimmer of hope, I manage to find beauty in life every day. I swear, since your death, I put everything into perspective. Amidst the horror of the world around us, I know that happiness is never far away. You just have to not seek it to find it.

So, in the midst of the general madness, I stop my brain, put myself on pause, and for a second, I enjoy a suspended moment in the course of time. A tiny point between the past and the future. A second during which I feel like the fullness I'm experiencing can last indefinitely... It never lasts long. Barely the time for a breath. But in those moments, I feel perfectly in tune with the world around me. A world you're still a part of...

Not very down-to-earth, all of this...

In this month of May, you would have turned 32. Today, I miss you more than yesterday. Probably less than tomorrow. The seasons will keep passing inexorably. History will continue to be written inevitably. And us, inevitably, we'll have to deal with it. Or rather, deal without you. So, I'll try to nurture this emerging conviction, this glimmer of hope that allows me to endure tough times. I'll keep repeating this sentence:

'Where the body cannot go, the mind permits.'

Happy birthday, Man.