Tout le monde me connaît mais personne ne peut me raconter. Personne ne me connaît même si tout le monde a entendu mon nom. Si tout le monde parle ensemble, cela donne quelque chose qui me ressemble mais n’est pas moi. Toutes les actions de tout le monde me construisent. Je suis le sang dans les rues, la catastrophe impossible à oublier. Je suis la marée à l’oeuvre sous les fondations du monde, que personne ne voit ni ne sent. Je me déroule au présent mais ne suis contée que dans le futur, où l’on pense alors parler du passé sauf que l’on ne parle, encore et toujours, que du présent. Je n’existe pas mais je suis tout.
Voilà, vous me reconnaissez. Je suis l’Histoire. Faites-moi belle.
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