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If I imagine I hold something in my hands

If you tell me to imagine I'm holding something in my hands. And if you tell me to write about this imaginary object. This thing I imagine will unavoidably be a soap bubble. I have come to terms with my obsession for soap bubbles. It does not mean I understand where it comes from. This understanding is probably part of my mission on Earth, our blue little planet floating away in the universe like one little bubble itself.

There is, perhaps,  right there an explanation in the fact that the world we live may be seen as a soap bubble from afar. Perhaps, that is a small part of the whole explanation, the impermanence of life in its large and small concerns, the frailty and beauty of our human dreams. Our imperfect connexions, our frustrated attempts to be truly seen and contemplated, our impossibility of floating towards the other without creating some kind of damage, even if unintentionally. Our flaws, our protective covers scretching against the skin of the ones we love, like the hair of a recent unshaved beard.

This soap bubble obsession may as well be the search for that one real human connexion, a touch so tender and delicate that would hold a bubble in its hands without bursting it, but caressing its transparency with tender affection. A transparency that would cross worlds and link hearts, intertwining veins as if they belong to the same organism. A lightness that would carry lovers into space and a perfect roundness that would make everything make sense. 
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