I have been told, rather often recently, that I don’t write much these days. True. Not because I am too lazy or too busy, nor because I have nothing to say.

Some words are reserved for myself, floating at night in the dark, or coming along with the wind when I pass by St-Laurence river in the morning, or emerging from the steps of my walk at noon, or lingering at my ear in my dream. They are never meant to be displayed on the shelf, never meant to see the ray of daylight.

I see words in the old diary, in the letters that someone once passionately wrote, on the casual paper tearing from some notebook. They exist for that moment, like petals of the flower, so fragile, so vulnerable, so easy to be blown away. Some others are there to be tasted, gorged upon, thought over to survive the days of waiting, the days of fighting in the battlefield, the days of knitting a dream alone…

Sometimes silence is vivid, passionate and dynamic, in the eyes of someone who can read it.