There are people who impose their way of being on you, daily or occasionally. They claim it, they display it, they show it, they repeat it, they argue it, they embed it in your landscape by associating to it a notion of freedom that has no equivalent than a stone suddenly thrown in your shoe or the wooden panel that your neighbor nails at the end of your garden, depriving you of a little more light in the name of his freedom and his respect for yours (but you didn't ask for anything)...
(Ooh, it's a long sentence... as long as the veil that has been lifted before my eyes tonight...)
So yes, there are those people who, in spite of their good faith or their good composition, make a big deal out of their presence, out of their assumed "naturalness" or their "roughness" an arrogance that you have to applaud and accept, to show them that they are right and that to be, it has to be seen, heard, denounced, disturbed or, finally, provoked.
"Come as you are", says the slogan, after all...
Well, I think that the first person who appeared to me, in conscience, as coming as she was, without announcing anything, nor imposing, nor claiming, nor explaining, nor composing, is Paris Jackson.
You must think, like me, that we forgive everything to Paris Jackson. I would say that we want to give her everything. We grant her the immense fragility, the immediate hypersensitivity and the overflowing empathy that emanates from her person; we resonate with her outbursts and claims on social networks, whether we share them or not, and we think about it... His life line is atypical, sinuous, steep, strewn with chasms and cliffside ascents, at arm's length.
But when it is "something else" that one meets, something else that gives a particular color and light to the person as a whole, one tells oneself that it is undoubtedly in this liminal and unsuspected space that a part of truth and reality is found.
I didn't expect anything because I didn't know what to expect. I didn't even know if I would have the opportunity to expect something, and even less that this reflection would emerge from an improbable and unforeseen encounter.
Paris Jackson could claim to be the daughter of... Doesn't her name stand on its own? She could overdo it a little bit, without us having anything bad to think about. She could put herself on stage with every move, she who was almost born in the spotlight. She could make of her voice and her music a banner, an existential slogan, make of her person an identity issue with multiple entries...
She does none of that.
Paris Jackson is.
Simply, naturally, gracefully, humanly.
Paris Jackson goes and exhales. She doesn't occupy the space, she spreads in the room with a discretion that is only equalled by her great beauty. She floats in the air, but she is flesh and blood, her feet on the ground, tears in her eyes, her hair in a mess.
She plays her guitar, coats her words with her voice, sometimes muffled, sometimes sharp, gives you a "fucking" or a "shitty" which sound suddenly, in reality and more than on paper, soft like rustling wings of unicorn...
She tells things, doesn't always finish her sentences or her songs, gets overwhelmed by tears, hugs you, looks for something between 2 verses, pulls on her electronic cigarette and then smiles while taking back her chorus in a smoke cloud... It is like that, as simple as that.
Paris Jackson is real and in that she is touching, vibrant.
We all (at least many of us) saw her born on the glossy pages of magazines, 24 years ago. We saw her grow up, suffer, suffer a lot... We had empathy, we imagined things, we have, consciously or not, carved a costume, lent intentions, built a character according to her potential antics and her f*** tweets...
Let's forget all that and let's know that one can have all the reasons to impose oneself, to claim oneself, to announce oneself, even on the tip of the toes, and for all that, not to do it. Neither by ethics, nor by ideological choice. All this can be felt at 10 miles away.
But because Life, without a doubt - the one that tans you, that amputates you, that sometimes tramples you, even after having given birth to you in a golden cradle, adorned with certain gifts and qualities - this Life, full and without concession, has taught you the urgency of living, the stealth of the present, the impatience of sharing, here and now. And that the only ornament worth wearing is this one: Being.
To be here, to be now, to be oneself, neither first nor exclusively. Because Being surpasses us and carries within us everything that is both smaller and larger than our person and our single life.
Thank you Paris, for this involuntary revelation...
Thank you for being you, with all that it involves...
We f**** love you
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