Black Fear

Prologue
Some days, I wonder if I did well. These stories, what Id narrated, every days, every instants, those
words written on papers without knowing what to do with it. Some days, I have questions
resonating in my head. What if people saw it, what if people read it ? These words, these writtings,
what I had to say, to repeat, to cry, to scream, to write in so small letters or so strange capital letters
every instants of my life. What if we read that, what if we saw it, what will I do about that ? What
will I do ? Will I be in front of a screen like even today, crying these lost words, brievly hating
myself for the awful things I had inscribe ? Questions without answers, shameful, vulgar, saying no
good, offering no bad. Questions resonating, shouting, breaking in my skull in a fervid battle.
Some days, answers tumble in my mind. Innocents and sweets. Pretty, pleasant, making sound my
questions weak, stupides, as if nothing in my mind was different from an unsuitable logic. Nothing,
nothing. I will do nothing, I will do nothing about it. It is an unspeakable magnificence, a distant
fantasy, without any way to understand neither how nor why. Unhappy utopia, this nothing was
under my eyes for centuries. Nothing in my soul, nothing in my heart, nothing in my eyes unveiling
this impure past I couldve undergo. Nothing anyone can say to me, nothing that can gravitate in
words to hurt me further than I couldve been hurt, during all these years.
Lost in my despicable mind, I forgot my first point. During twenty-four years, my feathers ink
flowed on blank pages, pages that were pure from any darkness. During this existence, I gravitated
around an ideal. Picturing my disease spelling words. Picturing my sorrow in all its darkness,
wandering a wicked way on the path Id crossed. These despicables characters, these horrors faced,
these wounds, this blood that might have flowed. During these days, during these hours, every
instants, I marked with red iron these white paper horses to have in the end a trace of my thoughts.
Verbalize my angers, verbalize my fears, my desires, my dreams. And I did it. I did it everyday,
every instant. I wrote with softness on these velvet papers, I showed every seconds every things I
couldve felt. And I ended by having these pages youre holding between your fingers.
Facinating things, its nevertheless not my dreams and my fears Im sharing with you. Lost fears,
forgotten dreams, never told things that will never been told. It is her dreams, her fears. A poor
person, a lost destiny. She doesnt understand anymore, her rings on her fingers and her straw hair.
She is lost, eyes in stars, head in void, pain hanging to the tip of her fingers and her cries running
down on her lips. Closing eyes, scarlet fluid. Shes the one youll report to, shes the one that will
wipe her tears, that will make tears flow. This lost harmony in a torned heart, these injured fingers
trying to stick the piece of a too deep rip back together. No, now listen. And listen closely to this
young women complaint. Forget your diseases, and travel through hers.