Hors saison

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There is this crazy bustle of the city, the endless traffic jams, the stifling frenzy and the multitude of faces that parade at full speed in front of you. And then, like a confrontation, there is this inner emptiness that lives in us, this feeling of no longer being able to breathe and dragging this torment perpetually.

Only one alternative seems possible: find the void, fantasize about the absence, the solitude, the silence, the large uninhabited expanses of nature to meet again with your inner self, even though, getting closer and closer to nothingness is a puzzling quest.

The agitation then disappears to make room for long desert and windy beaches. The cold reminds us that summer is only a distant memory that gradually fades from our memory. The city has lost its luster, and we must walk miles before crossing a human presence. The blinds are down and the few people we see are alone, making phone calls. Scaffoldings have been set, taking advantage of the low season to be erected. Next to this scenery, there are these large stretches of grass that create soft and warm reliefs in which we would like to take refuge. It feels like you could almost stop time in this natural shelters. It is in the morning that the light is the most beautiful. At that time of the day, it brushes gently the trees and the sea and brings to a reality that almost resembles an impalpable dream empty of all human life.

Then memories are resurfacing gradually. It feels like each town offers reminiscences of the past and is animated by the power of our memory. This deserted beach and these gaunt trees give us the feeling of having already roaming these places for hours and hours in the past or maybe our dreams or during our childhood… but does it really matters? These memories were anchored in our imagination and it is as if we just rediscover them.

This quest for emptiness finally turned into a symbolic journey, punctuated by the flavors of the past, the distant taste of childhood. It is not the emptiness that has been found, but the heritage of its own passages. There is no right season to meet with yourself, there is only the off-season.


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