The perverse eye

I am only the eye that looks into the camera. I see blurry. She dances on the piano keys. She is not a woman, but the musical puppet choreographer. She goes into a trance that only the body lives. No word reaches it.

In her world, she saw, far bullying, far indecent that hurts. As she dances nothing the key. It is released. This is perhaps the only time she really feels alive, human, a woman simply.

In his sensual movements she learns to love. Today she is there to show, transported in the universe vibrates when the language of emotion, not the aggression. His image is blurry to me, while it is before me in the flesh. I do not see the prey. I do not see weakness.

I cannot see the thing as lust for granted. I admire devours, it's true, eyes, but only for that lightness, this fragility that makes me dream. I am the eye in general.

Yet in the eyes of some of my peers, it would become a slave who has no right. She would dance under the improper conduct. It does imply that these perverse harsh words missing. It would make the glory of machismo.

She would not be the woman dancing in front of me, but the robot fantasmeurs. It does vibrate more in harmony notes, but tremble under the fingering of a sexual thief.

It appropriates the music to let her body speak. He takes them disgusting words to soothe his soul. I 'm only sees, but I said nothing. Is it the fear of losing my place that is important or perhaps my unconscious to support my silence?

The vision is yet disgusting, I do not attend a skit or a musical. We're all here together, sharing an amazing moment. Despite this a false note reign among us. To prevent this she dances. She dances.

I decided to open the eyes of the devil to stop the evil eye of my employer. I'll film it, the trick to make it the eye of the hell he has to her pussy used to. I'll show him that if individual strength is no match against him, leveled the millions of eyes on him can make him dance on a straw fire.

She is dancing with a black to a white, teleported, careless eyes that undress. I am only losing sight of one of his colleagues. I continue to my goal to turn these images she twirls. I'm in love. The representation ends. I go home.

The next day I arrived at the studio music in mind. Vision of horror, she hanged herself. Why? Why? Why yes, I did not say anything? Why I let him. I cry my colleague. I pretend not to see.

Despite myself, I killed her. I can still see the smile under his feet. I see free speech. I do not have that piece of film as a souvenir.

" Do not be too hard on you. You're not the only one to say anything . I'm not the only one to suffer . I chose to go on a note of fun when I was really me . I do not blame you . You know, the only way is to denounce , to combat this scourge millennium. Do not Cry. Do not ground you. I'm not , but I no longer suffer . My eye shows, in your eyes , I sought help , I found the issue on stage. Far from it , I smiled with happiness. Do not let him go after another . Together we can stand up in the world, show that the prey can stand up and say no. Today I say no , but it's too late for me. You, behind your camera, shouts for me! Loudly shouted for me ! "

Auteur

Ce contenu a été publié dans Points d'ancrage, avec comme mot(s)-clef(s) anglais, auteur, écriture, écrivain, Kentin Spark, Points d'ancrage. Vous pouvez le mettre en favoris avec ce permalien.