Dis-moi, qui es-tu?

If I close my eyes, I will see the red poppies blowing in the wind. I will feel the air brushing against my back as I stand on the endless haystacks of Grand-lez. I will remember Antoine and Arnaud. Those two boys that filled my early childhood and inundated it with the glow of their blond hair, their blue eyes and the way they held my hand while we told each other horror stories underneath covers. I wonder if they ever think of me, if I’m ever a slimmer of melancholy in their present self.

And I think about what makes us …us… They say our cells renew entirely every seven years…what gives us this sense of being us throughout our lives? Our memories? Our thoughts?
Say, I remember someone or an event I shared with someone but the other person does not remember...was I still there? did I exist? Do I get absolved into a fragment of my own imagination? Do we exist only by mutual "aknowledgement" of being??


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