photo: botanical garden, Nelson, always a nice setting for solitary walks. But one must be wary of lone walkers, we tend to pity them, or think that loneliness must weigh on their shoulders, whereas voices multiply in their heads so much so that they struggle to hear themselves think.

Reason, measured and predictable like a metronome, lays its arguments on the table of my mind. It wants something solid, concrete, a path through the fog that will not collapse beneath my feet. Intuition is barefoot in the morning dew, touching the air, like an almost inaudible whisper, a shiver before the storm; it knows, in fact, it has always known. The voice of my dreams speaks a foreign language that I struggle to understand. As for the body… its silent authority speaks in tides tightening, relaxing, stirring, suffering. It remembers what I forget, stacks what I refuse to feel, it remains silent until it has had enough. The voice of society sometimes arrives with its thousand instructions on how to be or to shine. None of them is meant to rule, yet none wishes to disappear.