Anybody see you

"Je t'ai trouvé tres sereine la dernière fois quand on se vue et ca te vas bien (malgré toute tes plaintes sur le temps et l'inquietude sur l article ...)" Facebook, Message Privé, 15 février 2013
http://youtu.be/64x_RCArfjU

She took her magic wand pushed the button, squeezed the rod, frowned. She was old but she also was a child. She knew she could, she knew how to. She wanted to be a woman, to unleash it, that very special part of herself - the one she liked so much. See, she knew she could and she knew how to. She loved the feeling. The taste and the way her whole self could change. She had never taken the time to. See. The gap was huge between the child and the woman but it made sense. The woman and the child loved each other. Made each other feel complete. Natural. The child was fun and fragile. The woman was strong but broken. And the magic wand responded to both of them with the same efficiency, as if the world somehow wanted her to get her share of happiness.

In the dark, in the middle of a crowd of young people, alone. Lost. Depressed. Dirty and old. Sad feelings in her guts, the sadness of parties stuck to her skin. The child was scared, the woman was nowhere to be found. Companions of recent times somewhere in the background. No one knew her here and no one knew nothing. Some had an idea. People easily had an idea when seeing how lost and shy and sad and broken she was - but no one really knew. She was bored and she felt like a crumb lost on a white tablecloth: on the verge of disappearing yet never so singular, close to what she really was. Time and events like the hands that play with the broken dust of bread lost between dishes - a very foreseeable future. Only one question: when?

And he, tiny accident, barely noticed. Yet, noticed. Just a glimpse and a thought. Not strong enough. Not long enough. Not even in words. Yet, a glimpse and a thought. Something she wouldn't hold on to, something she wouldn't want, something she'd probably despise. A certain lack of. And, there again, if she'd taken the time, the only conclusion she would come to would be: the words are weak.

So here she was, now, after the events, with her wand. Squeezing and puffing and laughing. Something about a secret and about peace. Not so precious. Not so strong. Not so eloquent. Not so much of a fuss. But real like pain and smell and pleasure.