a bouchet of wild flowers...

Some called it Saturday a rest day. But when Sunday come, most of us are a little sad. Is  it because we don't want the weekend to end,or is it because we have partied too much? We can embrace the sunshine in a different light, but we have our friends that we can communicate with, share how we spent our weekend and just good old fashion chitter chatter about a little bit of nothing.

Today I saw an old man on a stret corner. He sells illusions, like always. With its thick and long beard, with his eye glittering like a reconciliation with reality, with his broken clothes… He has in his hand a bouquet of wild flowers and he told everybody that he will give the bouquet to that person who buy more illusions… I draw near to him and I gave him some money…. He smile to me and I depart without saying something. Now, I look at my daughter sleeping and I am watching a bouchet of wild flowers... 
And with such puerility we buy the trust from corners of the streets without knowing that it’s value too little. If we would be sincere with us, if we would plagiarize the reality, we would realise that we are own victims; victims of beliefs and our hopes. 
But what shall we do? We should close us in a sea shell and throw us on the shore of forgetfulness? Well, maybe there we would heard just waves which don’t lie, don’t kill, don’t love...