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short short novels (EN)

The below has been written by Sylvain Souklaye and translated by Sophie Inge.

I become immune to it all

I know, man is supposed to be bad and humanity must save him from himself. What a nice idea! For, on closer inspection, I note that the most important moral principles of humanity taste only slightly of a renegade existence. All considered, humanism is an unbreakable machine that never asks questions. And sometimes, when we let ourselves go, man surprises himself by threatening the very foundations of his existence. 

I will never make new childhood friends

In short, rather the memory of one of these moments suspended than an absence where you remember a past spent in pairs that had no future, that knew no fear or bounds. Just you and me in the silence as if we were born to start a revolution, as an alternative to death, lasting 365 days from this same placenta made of peripheral concrete. But nostalgia saves no one from the additional imperfection that makes handcuffed strangers out of us. And yet, at this point of my endless narration, again and again I must pretend just like you to save what is left of our museum, but without knowing why.

The last ones politely curse the first ones

In the end the tax return form is of no importance, childhood always takes us back to the time of the first scrapes, internal struggles, mysterious fears of darkness, of monsters, of the end and that long shadow that chases after us right at our heels. Apart from that, it’s a long path, directionless and psychotropes, phoney over-the-counter medecine. Life is a placebo that is well worth all of its illnesses. So as not to make the most out of the present, together. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just to hear cries of joy around you. And what if there was no one there?    

All you can do is fill up this emptiness, a battle worthy of that word that deserves a block calendar and even a part-time mother. Bit by bit, little by little, piece by piece, you evaluate the situation, make links, consider the pros and the cons. All that counts is the function of the rhythm and the kind of mechanism. There is nothing beautiful, perfect, ideal or idyllic about an indeterminate suicide mission. To make little letters to be read with caution, a contract is still necessary. But life is a gift that you can’t refuse and no one questions such a present. So sell your life dearly, and sell theirs at a discount, buy time behind masks, a deception worthy of this mascarade.