Lake water
“Club Nautique French Sailing School” is written in red capitals on a wooden wornout trailer which is raised by two disproportionate tyres. It has most likely been there for decades, playing second best, hidden behind the large building, waiting for someone to at last comment on it.
The fields of grass are wet slanted, we can distinguish thousands of transparent droplets upright on each blade. It’s a unique sight in which we assist without charge. It is only 7.30am. We have been warned, the day may be beautiful.
In the morning, the weeping ground isn’t crying anymore. It just seems tired, still asleep, arms drooping, it’s blank stare reflects a crazy night moving to the rhythm of the wind gusts.
Reeds glisten like streetlights left on in daylight, ducks in love are courting noisily and we are there, to contemplate life.
The lake water is so calm that the geometry of reflection is exemplary. There are two mountains seated one on top of the other and two dense forests elbow to elbow. The hundreds of trunks seem to be as aligned as matches in a box. It is impossible to distinguish real life from a short-lived fantasy. It only takes us to lean our heads down to lose all sense of reality, all supposed perception. It’s like having your feet in the clouds and your head submerged, but without drowning. The feeling of weightlessness is soft, as miraculous as the misconception of making air holes. However my head is in the clouds without having to put my nose against a dirty porthole or having an overweight neighbour who would have probably preferred the extra money to spend on a business class upgrade.
But here we are, suffocated in a universe that we do not know and which is a little mysterious, trying to escape a reality that we know all too well.
Elisa Routa