James was successful in life. He had everything a man could want, and more. He was happy. He knew neither peace nor tranquility. In fact, he was not interested in any of that. He was only interested in strong emotions and lived passionately in everything he did.
Everything changed the day he had the accident. Was it the speed, the winking sun, or his mind that kept wandering? It was the latter, that day, that was going too fast.
And then the car started to float in the air, above the forest, to reach the sea, so beautiful, so blue, so deep and calm.
Miracles may exist. James would have called it a reprieve when he came out of the coma.
He had to learn the slowness, the patience, the insurmountable effort to do such simple things as putting one foot in front of the other.
Since then he never saw things the same way. What surprised him was to realize the emptiness that could exist between things and beings.
The world seemed different. Yet nothing had really changed. It was simply the way he looked at the world that was no longer the same. But it took him some time to recognize this.
He could now make out a multitude of details. One day a flower, the next a bird. He understood little by little how much his mind had been cluttered, permanently occupied and incapable of really perceiving what surrounded him.
For a long time he had evolved in automatic mode. Today he perceived the nuances, observed new animals and also people, to whom he had not paid attention until then.
One morning of this new life that was beginning for him, he went to the edge of the ocean. All traces of the accident had disappeared. He found just a few pieces of broken glass and, stuck between rocks, the logo of what was once his car. This made him smile. He returned to the beach to watch the waves lick the sand. He saw a man standing next to him and greeted him. Had he been there long? James was sure he had seen him before. The man held a Reflex in his right hand and looked out to the horizon. He wore an enigmatic smile. Without even turning around he said to James:
- I thought you would never notice my presence.
- Do we know each other?
- We've been passing each other every day or so for years. We are neighbors.
James couldn't help but laugh. The ice was broken. The two men talked as they walked back to the city. The man's name was Michael. He was a photographer. He too had a secret, a wound. When they reached a crossroads, Mickaël pointed at the passers-by:
- Do you see them?
- Yes. Some of them look like robots.
- We used to be like them, right? I try not to forget it
- Is that why you take pictures, so you don't forget?
- Maybe so, maybe I don't have a choice
- What do you mean you have no choice?
- Nobody has to create, you can live without it. So if we do it, it's because something, inside or elsewhere, pushes us to do it. We can walk like a robot or walk in consciousness. But art, we can only do it in consciousness.
Their steps brought them to the park. They sat down on a bench. Someone was passing a lawnmower in the distance. It sounded like a large insect buzzing. Mickaël leaned towards James:
- Can you hear it?
- The lawnmower?
- And?
James could hear the birds still singing. There was even a fountain. All of these sounds, though drowned out by the sound of the lawnmower, were there.
Then, gradually, it became quiet again.
- Even in the din, the whisper of life continues
James understood what was happening to him. Before his accident his life was a permanent maelstrom. He couldn't see the rustle of the world, all those things that were invisible then.
- Do you understand now why I take pictures?
- To show what our hurried eyes don't take the time to look at?
James took a deep breath and admitted:
- I feel like I'm rediscovering the world, as if it were coming out of the shadows
- Yes, and this is only the beginning
