He made beautiful bouquets out of autumn leaves
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I have a memory in the palm of my hand, I tighten my finger but it escapes like a piece of silk.
Frowning, Xenophilius stares at his naked fingers. He repeats this action every day, as soon as he wakes up. Before opening the eyes, his hand slides along the iced cold sheets next to him. His fingers run over imaginary curves and close up mercilessly like raptor's claws. He always ends up waking up, slowly, right foot first, voilà.
He dresses up cautiously, each day has its color. Then he throws three handles of ashes on the nettles in front of the house, to chase bad spirits of the night. He makes dandelions tea and locks himself in his office to write. The most important in life is to keep busy all day, until you forget the hour, and you might luckily forget the date.
Xenophilius is afraid of time so his watches and clocks had lost their needles like an elderly man losing teeth. Xenophilius is scared of many things. He dislikes perennial memories and prefers the ones which fade away and seem soft like clouds in the sky, he would like to catch them and lock them inside jars instead of wrackspurts.
Often, when he feels one coming like a breeze, he tightens his fingers. Hoping one day a piece of it will stay stuck under his nails.
Sometimes he talks, he talks to the wind and asks it to transmit his messages. He talks to the thunder and asks it not to distract the wind. He talks to the sky and asks for a lot of wind.
Xenophilius loves the wind. And the wind might as well love Xenophilius for he is talkative and never curses it.
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There is a name engraved in my blood, it goes all around my body and always comes back to my heart, I'd like to stop it and catch it but my heart can't stop jumping.
Xenophilius loves touching things, grabbing them, gripping them, knowing they are. It's because he sees things, things that aren't. Shapes looking like memories dancing around his eyes. Shapes only linked with one word.
He dreams he is drowning, but blue fits him well. He dreams someone fishes him out and finds him better like that, dead in the blue than living in the rest. He wonders if she would like a blue husband. Would the wind keep transmitting messages from a blue man ? And would fishes join wrackspurts in the foundations of his blond skull ?
Xenophilius says he built his house with possibilities and questions as only material.
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I am here, facing the front door, the key is in my hand, behind the door there is Pandora, she laughs, she calls me, my hand doesn't move, Pandora's laugh turned me into a statue.
Xenophilius says there are wrackspurts in his head, no one knows if he says the truth or if he is crazy. Some people say he's saying the truth because he is crazy and reality can't control the world he has in his minds.
Anyway, he doesn't hear them, he only listens to one voice, the cheerful voice of Pandora.
When he wakes up Xenophilius fondles the sheets. On them, there is, except the softness one could find anywhere else, few memories left by Pandora's shadow, when, at dawn, she goes away.
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Blue Note : It's the first time I translate one of my text from French to English, please tell me what you think about it (you can also tell me if something sounds too weird and isn't proper English). Xenophilius is such a peculiar character I think he deserves some attention and a lot of poetry.
Thank you for reading