Imagination can easily give the feeling of being nothing more than a particle...

Not for oneself or one's loved ones, but towards this vulgar globalisation that we call society. This feeling is, I believe, a widespread perception that is not very well expressed by individuals. It is not my little finger that tells me this because it is not very expressive towards me, but rather a deep conviction.

Of course, we know the workers' unions, the movements of all kinds, the loud statements of politicians... I consider them all equally as marketing; advertising, more or less well brainstormed in order to assert a group identity. But for me, if there is anything that is not about the group, it is identity.

It is a matter of people being considered on a case by case basis, with their childhood, their background, their development, their origins. It has nothing to do with ethnicity, labour or gender. Identity, like existence, is unique to each of us. And this individuality takes precedence over any other more encompassing label, because it will die alone, with each and every one of us.

So I don't really care if I'm bi, male, an artist or the son of my forefathers. I know that all these things can help define me, but it doesn't matter.

Self-definition does not systematically take the form of identity. I am more a plant, an animal, an asteroid or a living room bench... I am whatever my imagination can make of me.

As a result, I am unique, much more so than my genetic code.

I am not my life, because it is only misery compared to all that my imagination gives me to see. I cannot live nor concretise all that jostles in my psychic iconography. Thought is limitless, much more so than reasoning, which comes up against poor logic. This is why I am a poet, as they say, because my value is there, in this imbroglio of synaptic connections that make me believe in my state of being. That is why every individual is also a poet. All he has to do is give his value, his price, his belief in this boundless universe that makes the mind invulnerable. And the spirit is the flesh; for even if the flesh suffers, even if it makes us feel its fragile consistency, it is through the imagination that we love it or hate it; that we desire it or find it repulsive. It is only the body that palpitates, but our head invents the world where the body thinks it feels it.

This is why the feel seems to me infinitely poor in terms of the projection.

Nowadays, we often only praise sensation, the immediacy of the senses, sport, enjoyment, the surpassing of oneself, the shock. Yes, it's true, shock is the only thing that counts, because it is the result of the collision of our physical and mental limits with other real worlds. But this shock is only fully worthwhile if there is persistence of its impact, reliefs and cavities formed under its blow. And I forget so many things. I forget everything that my imagination cannot reproduce. Not that it can't really, but it refuses to retain anything that doesn't modify it or confirm its essence. I am unable to remember the physical pains I have endured; they were probably not sufficiently "striking" for me to keep track of them. However, they were burning and even intolerable in certain circumstances. It is said that the pain subsides. I would rather say that it is absorbed into the mass of negligible events, until one day, one of them, more salient than the others, irreparably tears the shape of my mind. We call it trauma then. It is the 'good' shock. The one that makes sure that nothing will ever be the same again, for good or for ill. Fortunately, from the point of view of the free imagination, good and bad do not exist, cannot be distinguished.

So the painful clash or the devouring passion, in the end, I do my own thing. My imagination digests them and spits them out in landscapes.

One can believe oneself enclosed within these settings, so realistic can they be. They even have the power to make you forget the form of the real origin of the fantasy that then takes shape. This is poetry. It is the process that leads to healing the real. It is the real itself that is put back on stage. It is its imprint in hollow; it is a trompe-l'oeil giving the illusion of volume through the play of depths and light. Because there is light in our heads; everyone knows that. We only have to close our eyes to see it and even feel its caress.

Yes, in my head, as I believe in all heads, there is a sun and planets; a whole system revolving around it. I don't dream it, I see it, with my eyes from within. This is the soul for me. There is no need for a god for it to exist. I am the soul and the body and no one can destroy me. The day I disappear, my consciousness will also disappear without being able to tell me. I live. I exist more than anything else in the world because the world is in my eyes and my pupils are under high protection, well protected, inside. They will never be able to get out and it is in the prison of my head that I am best off.

Why then am I nothing in this vulgar globalisation that we call society? Why do I not have access to any position, to any place that would allow me to better see this world that supposedly surrounds me? Because I am a snippet, a piece, a sliver. The fragment cannot see the whole. I am even the essential fraction without which this world, which does not exist outside my gaze, cannot stand.

Since this vulgar globalisation that we call society The social entity, which is the last one to really exist, tries to make the individual believe that he lives in it. It is a gigantic lie, a comic and terrorising illusion built from scratch by its own will to be supreme and above men. We, fearful as we are, believe it and give it our credit. From then on, it is not a question of fighting against ghosts and ectoplasms, if we choose to be. It is a question of erasing it all at once, this big baloney that would bring us all together in an artificial "paradise" that would be called life. Does life exist? Does it have a discernible identity? No, there are only living beings until proven otherwise. So the law, in order to contain their outbursts, which are nevertheless their miracles, invents the social form and, in exchange for their silence, gives the group and the family as rewards for their devout belief. The manoeuvre, modelled on the religious or the opposite (which of faith or law, supposed to be antagonistic, started this masquerade first?) is, it must be admitted, very clever, since it aims and succeeds in persuading the animal individual that he is part of the great whole by defining himself in these ersatz societies that he blithely forms on a small scale.

Of course, we meet every day, and it would be a wonderful experience every time, if the meeting did not drag behind it, like a bag of excrement hanging on its back, the "fabulous aura" of the social group. When will we meet serenely as individuals out of the whole, without fear of being out of place? When will we want to come together, without judging what comes before us? Fear of the other is the only real social glue, and it is arguably designed to stand the test of natural spontaneity.

I admire the dogs, alienated and despised, who pull vigorously on their leashes to go sniff each other's butts. Those who, already so imbued with their masters, challenge each other from a distance, have bourgeoisly forgotten by dint of comfort, how much they can be wandering and alone. They should not be blamed for this, any more than the wild species whose only obsession is to defend a virtual territory until a stronger individual comes along and redefines the borders to his advantage. They are perhaps the closest to us, so unaware are they of how much their spirit is enough to save them from the devouring anguish of tomorrow.

So yes, I wonder why in this world made for us, no one has a place or value for themselves. Why beings pass away and are considered so replaceable... except in the privacy of our dreams, for that is where we love best.

For all these reasons and more, I choose to live my life as a negligible quantity and not as part of the greater whole.

A chip of wood left over from someone else's puppet; one that will be put on the shelves.

Naked always and stripped of everything, I will still be my parcel; the one I protect and cherish because it fell from the great tree noisily cut down in a single moment. Quickly, it took its curve and here I am, wood dust among the small mounds of sawdust, steel filings torn from the vast laminated plates.

I am my curvature and my density. I am the mass of my speech and I have the properties of my matter.

But I am also an infinitesimal and imponderable fraction of myself, a lost physical curiosity, because poets, as everyone knows, in the world of everyday realities, have no weight.