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I have been told about the tides, the currents and about all of these aquatic swirls that can make the strongest of men powerless. It goes away and comes back, brings you far and brings you down. It brings you down and does not care.

I have not been told about the wave that comes, uninvited, over my belly button when I have only allowed the thigh.

A man at sea, lost in the depths of blue, then  blue, then black. The only thing that stays after this tragedy is the legend, the story that comes out of it. Lost at sea. Adrift, vanished, but never buried. When we disappear at sea, we are a little immortal.

- crest

- current

- flood

- influx

- movement

- outbreak

- rash

- rush

- sign

- stream

- surge

- swell

- tide 

- wave

Sometimes, we talk about the seas that have dried up and that create deserts, about the lack of water and everything that is parched. I tell myself that if one day I become arid of aquatic vocabulary, I will have to dive into the lexical field of current.

Because maybe it was a lake, before becoming a field.

The mountains are liars and I am less naïve. They are yellow, as if covered in hay, they seem dry and breakable. A mountain and nothing else. Grey and yellow. Rock and hay. Damaged velvet on a used chair. But the foot's sinking, the effort is doubled, the ground is porous. It is an aquatic hike on the flank of dried mountains, never. I cried on top of a big sponge because I was afraid of the wind, of the ocean, and of not being able to see them.

The trees here are witches that have become undecided by the winds. They don't know where to face anymore, what direction to indicate. They confuse the travelers. And their roots are wet, their base is not solid, a misshaped tree put in a pull that looks like ground. A blast throws them down and we find these trees lying along the paths. The lying witches of the western isles, distorted by the wind to finish laid down by it. The rootless. 

I don't know how it is called, this little part. The strip of wet sand, between earth and water. The landing zone, the death house of the waves. They come to throw themselves or to go to bed, they come to leave their mark. This little part is the bed of capricious tides, it is the in-between that adapts itself to the comings and goings, to the comings that don't go back. The no man's land of every coast. A line that defines every land, a line that is moving and changeable, it draws the almost cardiac rythm of the oceans and their moods. I feel like I am this little part. Never a wave again since I have left the ocean, emigrated of my own free will on the other side of the Atlantic. But I won't ever be dry sand. There will always be a wave to come and wet the sand that is trying to dry, to adapt itself. A wave of childhood, a wave full of salt and of french culture. I am this little part, not one anymore and never the other. But I don't complain : my migratory burden is a flower bouquet. And if these waves bring with them some bitterness that they leave on the ground, they are also like a caress - the wet sand knows water and sand, it is a malleable border, wishes to be sedentary but is fed by movement. To the migration fluxes and to all who want to carry their houses on their back : the world is your oyster.

- an apartment

- a building

- a cabin

- a castle

- a duplex

- a flat

- this hollow on your hip

- a hostel

- a hotel

- a house

- an igloo

- an inn

- a lodge

- a mansion

- a palace

- a pavilion

- a refuge

- a residence

- a shack

- a shed

- a studio

- a tent

- a tipi

- a triplex

- a villa

- a yurt

I always think in french, except when I am in France. I am always the foreigner : the one that is surprised.

There is, somewhere in Wales, a very little pond with an island at its center. I'm floating. Under my eyelids, life is orange, yellow, kaleidoscopic. Life is more or less warm depending on the branches passing over me, depending on the branches under which I pass. I try not to look behind me, not to look at where the current is taking me, never too far. It is both easy and difficult to let the water take you. We have nothing to do, floating is something that gets done without your control. Maybe it is this loss of control that makes it so difficult.

If I am just like the tide, does it mean that I will come back? It is never the same water that comes back. Or is it? The tide is hesitant, it leaves then goes back but is never fixed. Undecided by nature, its flux is lunatic. I have been told that when you are being taken away by the current, you need to follow it so that it brings you back. It takes you away, far away, where the minutes get confused and so do you. Once again, it is difficult to just float. The current took me and people tell me now that to meet the shore I should have swam earlier. Diagonally. Because if you go too far, you're not strong enough to come back. To float tires you and to think betrays you. Here I am, prisoner of the tide, of my changing moods and of the void under my feet. I have become just like it, undecided and dependant of the wind. Less bitter, maybe. Si je savais rouler les "r", j'aurais hurlé être emportée par la houle.

And what if I stayed here? But to stay is to sink. And I feel both heavy and light, because heavy of void, heavy of nothing. I hesitate between floating and sinking, so I'm drifting away. 
Maybe all that I need is a boat.