certain sensation


Originally posted by marxonetistte

Nakamoto Yuta is in love and there’s not a damn thing that he can do about it but let it all rush over him and shake him to his very core.

word count: 2201

cross posted on AFF

There are certain things - certain sensations - which cannot be captured by any words of any language. Things like forest fires or hurricanes of emotion, those feelings that ram into one with all the force in the world and then some and leave no survivors in their wake, only carnage (the sort that one could get drunk off of, though; the sort of total destruction that one goes back for again and again). These are the purest kind of feelings, the ones which cannot be tabled or curtailed but simply felt in their entirety as they come about. This is, of course, not to question the validity of others, but rather to emphasize the earnesty of these emotions experienced like natural disasters. Excitement hits like a tornado, hatred like a blizzard, and disappointment, a tsunami, each strong enough to flip one’s world completely around.

Nakamoto Yuta has found himself amid an earthquake he swears is large enough to shake the very foundations of the universe. He felt it coming for a while before the onset. He felt the slightest of tremors running through him where he stood, but he did not move, did not try to take cover - it was, after all, only a slight disturbance, small enough that he could continue on in his day as if nothing was different. He felt the watchful eyes of those around him, but those, too, were disregarded. They were making something out of nothing, jumping to conclusions he swore were baseless. After all, how could such little movements evolve into anything worth noting?

Very easily, he knows now, is the answer to that question. In the blink of an eye, in the beat of a heart, little movements can very easily become forces which shake the ground so harshly that he can’t even dream of standing on his own two feet any longer.

Nakamoto Yuta is in love and there’s not a damn thing that he can do about it but let it all rush over him and shake him to his very core.

He got the text a few hours ago, a sweet, “Can you come over? I’m bored,”, adorned with what Yuta swore was every emoji his phone was capable of sending and all the simple spelling errors expected of a foreigner (Yuta knows this because he, too, still makes these very mistakes in his own messages from time to time). It doesn’t take much more convincing than that for him to don his coat and be out the door - it’s a quiet night, one which he’s spent doing nothing but scrolling through various social media accounts thus far, so the invitation to do something, anything, is welcomed with open arms.

He arrives at the other’s doorstep in a mere matter of minutes, the walk being a rather brief one. There’s a certain sense of familiarity in the way that he knocks on the door, something almost akin to comfort, as if it’s his own apartment that he wants to enter. A small smile plays at his lips at the thought - as if it’s his own apartment, huh? He doesn’t mind the idea of it (nor the underlying premise).


When the door opens, he’s not greeted by the one that he’s made this little excursion for, but rather by his roommate, who welcomes him with a warm smile nonetheless. “Hey, what’s up?”

Yuta returns with a smile of his own. “Not much at all, just kind of hanging around my place until Sicheng asked me to stop by,” he says, making small talk, unaware of the way his own voice softens as he says ‘Sicheng’. “What’s new with you, Kun? I don’t think I’ve seen you in a while.”

“The usual,” Kun begins, branching off into a more specific explanation of what ‘the usual’ entails, but everything that he says after the first few words is lost on Yuta’s ears. He really hadn’t noticed the way that he was scanning the room since he entered, but he grows aware of it when he locks onto Sicheng the instant the boy comes out from his room.

If ‘purity’ could take on a physical form, it would, without a doubt, be Dong Sicheng. With his eyes round and wondering like that of a doll’s and his full, red lips, it really doesn’t take much imagination at all to think that maybe he isn’t human at all - maybe he was delicately carved by some masterful artist those nineteen years back. His skin is almost like a child’s, unbelievably soft and never marred by a blemish or imperfection of any sort, and his long, slender limbs make it easy to guess that he’s a dancer. To top it all off, Yuta swears that at least some part of the very sun must’ve taken up residence within his heart. It shines through when he smiles that characteristically radiant smile of his, when he gets that wondering look on his face when he can’t quite come up with the Korean word to express himself, when he speaks in that charmingly low voice which absolutely does not match his sweet appearance… when he does anything at all, really, it’s not hard for anyone to see the way that he glows.


A grin spreads across Yuta’s face the very moment that he sees him, and the younger mirrors the expression once they lock eyes.

“Ah, here’s poor Sicheng,” Yuta teases. “Are you doing alright, or has the boredom totally consumed you?”

“I thought I might die,” confesses Sicheng, playing right along with his smile not faltering for so much as a second. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Yuta’s heart swells - leave it to Sicheng to already say something absolutely precious before even twenty seconds have passed. He doesn’t even notice Kun slipping back into his own room as he crosses over to where Sicheng stands, pulling him in for a tight hug which manages to drag out some laughs. “I came just in time, huh?” He asks. “Thank God. I don’t know what I would’ve done without my Sichengie.”

The younger giggles as he pulls away from the hug, and Yuta is acutely aware of the absence of his delicate frame against his own. “Come on,” Sicheng invites, starting towards his bedroom. “I want to watch a movie.”

He absolutely does not have to ask twice for Yuta to follow right along behind him.

Sicheng’s room is so very much like him that it’s not at all difficult to tell that it’s his. The walls and furniture are all soft, pale colors, various little knick knacks and what Yuta assumes to be mementos from home lining his shelves. Everything seems to be more or less in order (save for the closet which Yuta knows from experience is a black hole which never returns anything which enters), yet there’s a homey feel to it even with the tidiness. The most distinctive feature of all, Yuta thinks, has to be the fairy lights which are strung all across the ceiling, basking everything in a warm glow which gives every object it touches a sort of ethereal quality.

Specifically, Sicheng.

The boy was ahead of Yuta as they entered, so he’s already laying on his bed by the time Yuta steps into the room, spindly legs kicking about as he tries to get beneath the covers. It’s comical, the way he squirms about, but Yuta doesn’t even notice. All he can see is the way Sicheng glows - literally glows - beneath the strings of lights, eyes twinkling and skin taking on a warm tone. He’s like a fairy, an angel - something far much more beautiful than ‘human’ could ever hope to explain.


He beckons Yuta over as he places his laptop beside him (he’s still wearing that smile of his, and Yuta is almost expecting a halo to start shining above his head or wings to sprout from his back), and the Japanese man has no choice but to join him, his legs almost seeming to work of their own accord as he heads toward the bed, crawling beneath the covers and making a point of scooting close enough that their legs are touching.

He doesn’t even have a chance to ask Sicheng what movie he’d like to watch before the boy is already pressing play (it’s adorable, Yuta thinks, that he already had the movie ready to go before he arrived), wide eyes fixated on the screen.

Yuta has to stifle a laugh as the opening credits begin to play - just when he thinks that Sicheng can’t get any cuter, he always manages to. Leave it to the cutest boy to choose the cutest movie, he thinks as the telltale music of Ghibli’s ‘Totoro’ fills the room. Even cuter yet, he discovers as they begin to speak, it’s the original Japanese version of the film, Chinese subtitles rolling across the bottom of the screen.

“Did you choose this for me?” Yuta asks softly, and Sicheng just smiles - all the answer that he needs, really. He reaches over and ruffles the younger’s hair, eliciting a giggle (he really needs to stop doing that - he’s going to give Yuta a heart attack at this rate). “Thank you, Sicheng.”

They’re quiet after that, eyes on the film before them - that says nothing of their minds, though, and Yuta’s is most certainly not concentrated on the movie. Instead, he thinks of the way Sicheng’s legs seem to have become more tangled with his own at some point, of the way he’s listening more closely to Sicheng’s soft breathing beside him than to what the characters are saying. He doesn’t realize the way that time is passing while he’s so concentrated, and he’s shocked when he notices that the screen has turned black.

“Already over…?” He mutters, truthfully not recalling most of the movie passing by. “Want to watch another one?”

When he doesn’t receive an answer after a few seconds, he turns to Sicheng, and the breath is snatched straight from his lungs the very second that he does so.

He’s fallen asleep, which, in itself, isn’t that noteworthy, considering the fact that it was hardly early when he first invited Yuta over. What is noteworthy, though, is the way he looks a million times more beautiful than any of the world’s renowned works of art.

Yuta doesn’t know how he hasn’t noticed how long Sicheng’s eyelashes are before, but he sees it clearly now. They brush softly against his cheeks, long and dark and curled just right, the way people spend money to get their own to do.


The blankets are bunched up in his fists and pulled right up to his chin, but if Yuta watches closely, he can see the gentle way his chest rises and falls with each breath, a slow yet steady rhythm to it that Yuta finds some strange sense of peace in.


His lips are as bright and cherry red as ever, a stark juxtaposition against his skin which is as white as snow in the middle of February. They’re parted just so, just enough for Yuta to faintly hear those steady breaths of his amid the silence of his bedroom, and holy hell, Yuta has never seen anyone look more kissable in his whole life.

Shake shake shake shake shake shake shake shake shake shake.

It hits all at once, and Yuta is suddenly dizzy under the force of it all. Oh, fuck, Sicheng is the most beautiful man that Yuta has ever seen, and oh, fuck, Yuta is so unbelievably head over heels in love with him. When just the pattern of his breaths is enough to send Yuta’s heart racing in his chest, he thinks it’s time to use that word - love.

Nakamoto Yuta loves Dong Sicheng.

He loves him, loves him like all of the earthquakes in the world across all of the years of history all rolled into one, and when the boy in question opens his eyes slowly, Yuta’s about ready to whip out a megaphone and scream it out at the top of his lungs before the feeling drives him absolutely nuts.

He doesn’t, though.

He looks at Sicheng, looks at the soft, sleepy way the boy looks up at him, and he speaks in a voice so gentle it seems that he’s almost afraid of scaring him off. “Sicheng.”

“Hm?” The boy answers, tired voice matching the look in his eyes that has Yuta’s heart right on the verge of melting.

Yuta gulps, licks his lips, and then the words are out of his mouth before his mind can catch up with him. “Can I… can I kiss you?”

If Sicheng’s caught off guard in his sleepy state, he doesn’t show it. His eyes meet Yuta’s, flicker to his lips, then right back to his eyes again, and he nods, pink dusting his already glowing cheeks.

Yuta doesn’t waste a second in closing the distance between them, meeting Sicheng’s plush lips with his own, every pent up feeling making itself known as he does.

The world’s shaking so violently that Yuta can’t even see straight, but so long as Sicheng’s shaking with him, he doesn’t think he minds.

My brain: stop telling people you’re autistic. You’re just a nerdy person who uses autism as an excuse for bad behavior.
Me: oh, okay… lemme just check your sources on that, brain
Symptoms of Autism Spectrum Disorder: Constant repetitive activities or behavior; sensitivity to certain sensations, smells, or sights; inability to control volume levels of speech (talking too loud or too quietly); special and obsessive interests in narrow topics that can change over time or remain forever; consistently waking up before sunrise during childhood without the aid of an alarm; physical clumsiness; abnormal aptitude in one academic field with average or below average aptitude in others; perfect recitation ability…
Me: hey wait a minute these are all aspects of my personality and experiences–

anonymous asked:

Sorry to bother u, but is it an autistic thing for your hair brushing against your neck to feel wrong?? I hate it and it makes me all twitchy. I sometimes find it hard to text too, the letters popping up on the keyboard overwhelm me i think

Most Autistic people have specific sensory sensitivities, including aversions to certain sensations. So yes, disliking hair on your neck could definitely be an Autistic thing. It sounds like your issue with texting could also be a matter of sensory sensitivities.

Luckily they can both be dealt with in fairly simple ways. Besides a haircut, just tying up your hair in certain ways (e.g. a bun) will keep it off your neck. For texting, there are a variety of (mostly free!) keyboard apps you can download to replace the default keyboard - shop around until you find one that doesn’t have the letters popping up.

-Mod Valencia

Thunderbirds Are Go – “Morning Glory”

“Is that a banana in your pocket or is your structure just settling?”

The grin on Gordon’s face would make the likes of the Cheshire cat jealous. He saw an opportunity, and took it. Virgil, who was still quite sleep drunk, suddenly realized what his younger sibling was referring to, becoming aware of a certain sensation he had ignored in favour of his very empty stomach and the tantalizing smell of breakfast. And now all eyes were on him – or rather, his crotch. Scott was blushing and shuffling his feet uncomfortably. Alan seemed to hover between curiosity and confusion. Grandma and Kayo, however, pretended nothing unusual had happened. Kayo had grown up around boys, so morning erections were no longer mysterious nor shocking.

When it comes to hiding a boner, size can either be an advantage or a burden. Unfortunately for Virgil, the latter held true for him. Most of the time, the boys took care of the situation before heading down to have breakfast. That’s what snoozing or showers are for, or the sheer force of mind to ‘make it go away’. Virgil felt a blush burning up his ears and cheeks. As he sat down behind the table and grabbed a slice of toast, he hoped that it might at least partially draw blood away from that other burning sensation in his PJ bottoms. He will remember this. He will remember it, and he will have his revenge.

Two weeks later, Fate finally granted him the opportunity he had been hoping for.

Gordon shuffled towards the table, running a hand through his disshevelled mop of blonde hair. The bags underneath his eyes were a gentle reminder that sleep and hanging out at clubs all night don’t mix. He woke up parched and starving, stumbling downstairs on auto-pilot. In spite of the sleepless night, a particular body part hadn’t failed to do its nocturnal workout and was still proudly showing off its ability to defy gravity when Gordon walked into the room.

“So. Who wants bagels for breakfast? Raise your hands,” Virgil said, his face warping into the most mischievous of smirks, before adding: "Or, in Gordon’s case, raise a tentacle.”

Everyone in the room was now staring at Gordon, whose face remained a blank canvas. But wait. One of his eyes began to twitch, like a ripple threatening to crack the perfect poker face.

“Fine, Virge,” he snarled. “You win this round.”

Gordon dug his spoon into the bowl of yogurt and spent the rest of his breakfast ignoring Virgil’s perma-grin. Balance had been restored to the Force on Tracy Island. For now…


Based on this post and a prompt/challenge by the lovely @madilayn @mrs-eviltedi and @scribbles97 - thanks for the inspiration. Also for @typethedragon and @doyouheartheangrymen (stay awesome, darlings, Team Virgil wouldn’t be the same without you)

What the…? I’m…still alive?! That can’t be… I made certain I was… This sensation… Juvia’s blood is… flowing inside me?!
‘Water Make 'Blood.“
'In preparation for the absolute worst-case scenario, should something catastrophic befall Gray-sama… Juvia secretly perfected this Blood Transfusion Magic…’
'Juvia… will live on within you, Gray-sama. That is why… there is no reason to be sad.’
"Ah…aah! This isn’t happening… Juvia…”
'Because Juvia’s life… will forever and always belong only to you, Gray-sama.’
“Juvia… I promise… I’ll take your feelings more seriously, so… Please… just open your eyes…! I’m begging you… Juvia…”

I am so tired of hearing about triggers.

Thoughts, beliefs, ideas, concepts, practices and behaviours are not triggers. The idea of anyone being “triggered” by sexism or someone being pro-life is non-sensical, because that’s not what a trigger is.

A “trigger,” in very basic psychological terms, refers to a thing that causes a person with PTSD to have a flashback. It is a sight, sound, smell, sensation or taste that a PTSD-sufferer so strongly associates with their trauma that it causes intrusive memories, effectively transporting them back to the moment of their initial trauma.

A trigger isn’t just something that upsets you or makes you feel shitty. Triggers are things like the sound of gunfire, or the taste of a certain food, the physical sensation of sex. It’s not “somebody said something upsetting.” It’s not “I don’t like reading about experiences similar to mine.” It is an extremely specific thing.

Potential triggers: the sound of a fire alarm, the smell of coffee, a red carpet, someone touching your neck or back in a certain way, a spoken phrase.

Not potential triggers: sexist behaviour, depictions of sexual assault or violence (except insofar as a movie may contain, say, the sound of fighting), a discussion about a sensitive subject.

If you do not have PTSD, you do not have triggers.

I was reading a story about a woman who assaulted someone at an anti-abortion rally and claimed that the person’s expression of their opinion “triggered” her somehow. That’s not a trigger. That’s a thing that pissed you off and made you want to beat them up.

What pisses me off is that people keep claiming “triggers” in order to promote censorship. They claim that the expression of certain ideas or concepts is “triggering” to them. The word they’re looking for is “upsetting.” It doesn’t trigger them, because that’s not what a trigger is. It upsets them, but saying “you can’t say that, it upsets me” is a pretty lousy excuse. Pretending to protect people with an actual injury sounds so much better, doesn’t it?

For an illustration of the difference: a couple years ago, my best friend and I got together to watch a movie. We also made ginger cookies, which are a major trigger for me, and caused me to have a lot of pretty back flashbacks. I wanted to associate a new memory with them so that I could help reduce flashbacks. 

The movie that we watched had a brief mention of a young woman sleeping with her professor, and it made me super uncomfortable because that’s similar to my own experience. 

Ginger cookies can take me back to the moment of my assault, to the taste in my mouth and the physical feelings and the emotional turmoil and pain. Mentions of a prof fucking a student make me feel gross because I know from experience how fucked up and imbalanced those relationships are. Not the same thing.

I find movies with sexual assaults difficult to watch. They don’t trigger me, they just make me upset. “Upset” and “triggered” are not the same thing. Being triggered definitely does make me upset, for sure, but they aren’t synonyms. 

And EVEN IF concepts and ideas could be triggers, which I don’t believe they can, so what? I’m triggered by cookies and black tea and I have never told anyone not to have those things around me. A couple weeks ago, someone did in fact serve me black tea. I didn’t say “oh god take it away, you’re a terrible person for triggering me.” I took some deep breaths, reminded myself of where and when I was, and asked for some cream and sugar.

So please, stop using my injury to justify silencing people. I don’t care if they’re assholes and they’re wrong. Say that. I don’t care if it upsets you. Say it’s upsetting. But don’t claim you’re protecting me when you really just want somebody else to shut up.

(A note: this isn’t about “trigger warnings” though I hate that term. I think warnings for potentially disturbing content are totally valid and fair; I mean, that’s what movie ratings are for. It’s totally fine to let people avoid topics that might make them upset or uncomfortable when they aren’t in a state of mind to deal with that. But when I first got involved in fandom, we called them “content warnings” or whatever.)

I keep seeing all this stuff about appropriation, like how apparently learning sign language is appropriating from deaf people and so is learning Spanish if you’re not actually hispanic, or whatever. It’s gotten to the point that I roll my eyes every time I hear the word appropriation. But since it’s apparently such a big deal, let me put it this way: when you start going on and on about triggers in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with PTSD, you’re appropriating a very serious injury in order to further your own agenda. It might be a feminist, egalitarian, just and totally wonderful agenda; I might totally agree with it. But leave my injury out of it.

148. Kasimir Malevich. Suprematist Composition: Airplane Flying. 1914. Oil on canvas. 22 7/8 x 19″ 

“Malevich’s totally abstract painting is composed of red, black, blue, and yellow rectangles and trapezoids…In his eloquent and ecstatic theoretical writing Malevich identified flight–liberation in space–with a release from natural earth-bound existence. For Malevich such forms and sensations symbolized certain philosophical absolutes, plastic relationships, and the spiritual values of a new society, all simultaneously” (123). 


I’ve been wanting to draw Ganny in the cold and wondered about his first experiences in the snow and such. One idea is that by the time he’s off recruiting minions and what not he’s pretty numb to certain sensations. And the cold? Pfff, it ain’t that cold brah!

But who am I kidding? Us hot dry desert dwellers don’t fare well in the not-hot.

“The error of imaginary causes begins with dreams. We experience a certain sensation and then retrospectively supply a cause for it, which often takes the form of a whole litle novel with the dreamer as the protagonist.”

—F. Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols, “The Four Great Errors,” §4 (edited excerpt).

What does happiness mean? Does happiness mean to live a life of pleasure or one of virtue? Is it the life of physical pleasure and material comfort? Is it the life of political success and status, is it the life of contemplation? What an amorphous thing, this exaltation! All that can be determined is it’s fleeting sensation – a certain spring that is more real and more scintillating than any other morning glow, a festivity written in the amber of coloured pencils. Though, springs like this often bring with it an infinity of sadness. A calmness after the storm, leaving reality vestigial. Stultified, these exaggerations and ecstasies are transformed into a somnolent dusk. It is in this way that happinesses betray their promise.

Dead Duck (Throwback 2011)

Elle était assise en tailleur, une main sur son cœur. Quelque chose dans sa posture semblait trahir une quelconque détresse. Un appel à l'aide. Était-ce son échine courbée ? Les commissures tombantes de ses lèvres ? Ou cette amertume si délicate, au fond de ses prunelles ?

La nuit était impénétrable. Aucun rayon de lumière ne venait trahir l'impassibilité d'une soirée sans étoiles. Le ciel était d'un noir d'encre. Il ne reflétait rien. Ni l'amour, ni la vie, ni les rêves. Cet horizon, satiné d'obscurité, lui donnait l'impression que les astres se moquaient d'elle.

Un vent glacé souffla, et un frisson lui parcourut l'échine, tandis que tout son corps cédait avec un certain abandon à la sensation enivrante de ne plus rien contrôler. Ses pieds nus avaient quelque peu bleui au contact d'une surface si froide, située si haut. Ses ongles s'enfonçaient dans la chair de ses avant-bras. Au moins, la douleur était là pour lui assurer qu'elle était toujours vivante, sous cet enchevêtrement de peau, vaisseaux sanguins, et entrailles.

Elle regarda devant elle, et fut surprise de voir fuser, dans l'océan de silence qu'étaient autrefois les cieux, une traînée de poudre rouge, puis une pluie d'explosions. L'éphémère humaine se fit bleue et jaune, illumina le ciel, puis s'évanouit, comme un soupir, transportant dans l'air ses fines particules de lumière.

Elle se rendit peu à peu compte de ce privilège qu'elle avait de vivre, de respirer. C'était un acte tellement simple. Bomber le buste, gorger ses poumons d'air, compresser sa cage thoracique, faire sortir l'oxygène comme pour des volutes de fumées. Sentir son cœur battre. Quelle aventure, chaque choc contre sa poitrine sonnait comme une victoire.

Elle eut un sourire quelque peu amer, en repensant à son passé. Après tout, en avait-elle vraiment un ? Qu'étaient-ce ces quelques années de débauche qu'elle avait vécu ? Ce n'était qu'un ramassis d'ordures. Une grande déception. Le huitième d'une vie. Mais comment aurait-elle pu avancer, avec cet horrible secret, qui lui rongeait tranquillement les quelques fils qui la liaient encore à la vie ?

Cette fille se nommait Emily. Emily Vanns. Je le sais parce que je la connais assez bien. J'étais à ses côtés, ce jour-là. Enfin, à ma façon. 

C'était une fille tout à fait banale, dans les standards les plus basiques de la normalité. Rien ne la distinguait particulièrement des autres filles que l'on voyait dans la rue. Elle avait des cheveux bruns, des yeux marron. Son corps, à ses débuts, était tout à fait normal, quelque peu potelé, mais rien de bien méchant. Sa tenue vestimentaire, quand-à-elle, ne relevait certainement pas d'une passion pour la mode. Elle n'en avait pas. Mais quelque chose en elle, émanait comme une aura de passion. Elle rougeoyait, qu'importe l'endroit où elle se trouvait. Elle semblait bouillonner de l'intérieur.

Je dois vous avouer qu'au commencement, je ne comprenais pas sa fureur de vivre, sa fougue de se battre, son caractère bien trempé. Je ne la connaissais pas après tout. Pas encore. Je ne savais pas pourquoi elle tenait tant à foncer, toujours et encore, tête baissée.
C'était Thoreau, qu'elle citait le plus souvent, les yeux étroitement fermés, elle me récitait alors, de sa voix douce : « Je voulais vivre intensément et sucer la moelle de la vie. Et ne pas, quand je viendrai à mourir, découvrir que je n'aurai pas vécu. » Je ne comprenais point non plus cette peur qu'elle avait de mourir, cette conviction  en elle qu'elle allait bientôt quitter le monde. Cette fille était complètement folle à lier. Et elle me rendait fou.

La première fois que je la vis, c'était durant ce match de football. Chaotiques et bouillonnants de monde, comme à leur habitude, ils étaient une façon pour un mâle d'amplifier son ego déjà surdimensionné. Les bruits de la foule, et les froufrous des pompons des Chauffeuses de terrain agissaient comme une bonne dose d'adrénaline. J'étais « Quarter Back », et mon énergie semblait monter en bloc au fur et à mesure que les clameurs gagnaient en intensité. C'était le dernier match de la saison : Le plus décisif, le plus difficile, le plus important. Les gradins étaient remplis à ras bord. C'était l'anarchie. 

Je ne me souviens plus très bien de ma petite amie de l'époque. Je me souviens qu'elle était blonde, mais la couleur de ses yeux m'échappe étrangement. J'étais bien connu de l'institution dans laquelle je faisais mes études. Je ne vais pas m'étendre dans les clichés bien connus, véhiculés par l'industrie du rêve qu'était l'Amérique. Ma vie me filait entre les doigts, comme du sable, et je ne m'en rendais pas compte, trop obnubilé par les étoiles et la renommée. 

Dire que cette fille avait sauvé mon âme serait un euphémisme. C'était bien plus que ça.

Son entrée dans ma vie fut aussi rapide qu'inoubliable. Il avait suffit d'un arrêt du jeu, d'un moment de flottement, d'une goutte de trop de vodka cerise. Elle avait débarqué, comme un ange, un ange enivré d'alcool, son innocence teintée de défi. Son sourire fut la première chose que je vis. Puis sa démarche maladroite mais fière, devant ces centaines de personnes qui la regardaient. Elle avait traversé le terrain sans trébucher une seule fois, son regard de braise posé sur moi. Elle avait ensuite collé sa poitrine contre mon torse, et m'avait soufflé, dans l'oreille, de sa voix douce qu'elle n'arborait que pour moi : Dis, à quoi elle sert, la vie ?

C'était bien là que je me rendis compte de l'importance que cette étrangère avait tout d'un coup pris dans ma vie. Était-ce son souffle chaud sur mon cou, ses doigts glacés, ou son clin d’œil complice qui m'avaient charmé ? Je ne compris point mon attirance irrésistible envers elle. Je fus troublé, ne sus que répondre, me contentai de la regarder dans les yeux. Elle soutint si fort mon regard que je me surpris à sentir mon cœur battre, d'une toute nouvelle manière. Celle où le cœur s'affole, danse et s'arrête, comme un fou.

Une bulle de sérénité m'avait enveloppé, elle, puis moi. La chamade de mon cœur atteignit son paroxysme, en même temps qu’une larme solitaire coula sur sa joue.

Jamais je ne fus aussi touché par les larmes d’une fille. Ma si belle inconnue avait fondu en pleurs. Pris par un élan qui ne m'était point commun, je la pris par la main, et l'emmenai loin. Loin de la foule, loin du bruit. Nous nous perdîmes dans les dédales de la nuit.

Nous traversâmes, en silence, des ruelles et ses pavés, le souffle court, les cheveux emmêlés et le froid nous fouettant le visage. Elle souriait, toujours en pleurs. Elle était déboussolée, la tête encore remplie de délicieuse liqueur.

Nous finîmes par nous arrêter devant une piscine municipale, probablement vidée par manque de budget, ou tout simplement parce que nous étions en hiver.

- Il n'y a pas d'eau, dis-je alors.

Elle m'avait lâché la main, s'était dirigée vers une échelle, et escaladait méthodiquement des barreaux menant vers un haut plongeoir. Je la suivis par derrière, comme par instinct. Parce que je le devais. Parce que c'est ce que je voulais. Nous nous assîmes, et je fus subjugué de la vue qui s'offrait à nous. Toute la ville était à nos pieds.

- Bien sûr qu'il y a de l'eau, se contenta-t-elle de dire.

Sa réponse me troubla une nouvelle fois. Je ne répondis pas, et je jetai un regard sur son sourire comblé.

-Tu ne regardes pas le monde à travers tes propres yeux. Moi je la vois, l'eau. Elle est bleue, elle est miroitante. L'odeur du chlore me chatouille les narines, dis, tu ne le sens pas, le chlore ?

- Qui es-tu ? Finis-je par lâcher.

- Quelle importance ? Répondit-elle en posant sa tête sur mon épaule.

Elle avait raison. Qu'importait son prénom, son nom de famille ou son âge. Je savais que jamais je n'aurai ni le courage, ni l'envie de quitter cette inconnue.

Ma vie avait subitement changé, ma vision du monde était toute autre. Cette fille n'était pas un amour, ce n'était pas une amitié. Elle n'était rien, puis tout à la fois. Aussi incompréhensible qu'elle n'était mystérieuse, elle brûlait les étapes, elle revenait en arrière, accélérait, ralentissait, puis s’arrêtait souvent pour observer le monde autour d’elle. Tout son quotidien n'était rythmé que par les battements de son cœur.

Puis il a fallu qu'elle ait à s'en aller. Il a fallu que son corps la rattrape, que la réalité éclate, que le rêve  s'évanouisse, et que l'univers parle. Il a fallu que je sois loin, pour recevoir cet appel. Celui qui me disait, et que je n'oublierai jamais :

- Je voulais vivre intensément et sucer la moelle de la vie. Et ne pas, quand je viendrai à mourir, découvrir que je n'aurai pas vécu. Il est finalement, arrivé, ce moment, mon amour. Je me battrai jusqu'au bout, tu sais. Je l'ai fait. Mais tu sais, mourir ravagée d'une tumeur, ce n'est pas la mort que je veux. Je veux cette mort si douce que celle de plonger dans une eau bleue miroitante. Notre eau, celle à l'odeur si particulière de chlore. Tu sais, du haut de ce plongeoir. Ne crois pas que je vais m'écraser comme une poupée de chiffon, oh non. Je vais plonger dans un autre monde. Ne laisse pas un disparu t'égarer. Alors dis-moi. A quoi elle sert, la vie ?

Mais finalement, tu sais, la vie n'a plus de sens pour moi. Tu m'as appris qu'il ne servait à rien de se lamenter. Je me battrai pour toi.