Listen to poem:
Le Vertige des Immobiles
I am here, sitting and watching the world.
I do not flee reality — I simply let it pass before me,
like a river I do not dare to cross.
I am here, sitting and mastering my passivity,
taming this silence that serves as my action.
I do not flee — I am only a spectator,
a witness without gesture, a living being without movement.
Yet I know the world is changing.
I know the earth is warming,
that it burns with every fire,
even those lit by humans to harm.
Wars for stupid ideologies,
for a little more territory,
for a little more religious fanaticism,
for a little more wealth.
And human beings in all this?
Bodies that are moved, broken, forgotten.
Lives sacrificed as if they had never breathed.
I also know that some destroy themselves differently,
in the silence of nights,
with all those drugs that make them dream and dull themselves,
sometimes die,
as if disappearing were better than standing up for something,
as if all of this numbed them,
pulled them away from themselves,
kept them from seeing that the world is truly burning.
And this crosses every social sphere,
those who flee out of despair
as well as those who flee through performance,
those who want to forget
as well as those who want to endure,
all these humans who burn themselves out
to appear stronger than they are.
And here I am,
doing nothing.
The worst in all this
is that there are millions like me,
remaining there, motionless,
watching the catastrophe like a spectacle,
hoping someone else will stand up,
someone else will shout,
someone else will save what can still be saved.
It gives me vertigo,
makes me want to vomit.
I am ashamed of myself,
ashamed of us,
ashamed of this seated humanity
that waits for the world to collapse before finally rising.
What will we leave to others?
Ashes?
Ruins?
Regrets?
Excuses that come too late?
And I, what will I leave to myself,
to us, here present?
Only this gaze that observes the scenes,
this gaze that sees everything,
that understands everything,
but does not move.
Guilt settles in me like a shadow,
a presence that follows me,
whispering that I could do more,
that I should do more,
that I should be a spark of awakening,
a breath,
a cry,
a step.
But I remain here,
sitting,
watching the world.
And the world looks at me,
as if asking:
“What are you waiting for?”
Joel Charvillat.
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