That’s it, it’s said. I no longer believe in this world. So I lie to my children, by recycling, by teleworking, by reusing everything I can, thus minimizing each of our actions. Everyone around me notices that the planet is warming.
It’s reassuring to have lots of Laure Waridel around you. After they offer me a glass of red imported from Australia, they move on to planning their next trips. Or renovations. Or renting their last electric van, the previous 24-month lease having expired.
Our great thinkers of this world all have their hands in the caviar, whether they are architects with too big houses, physical education teachers, cooks of meats, meats and meats, presenters or environmental activists. There is even this lady, on a private radio station, who is reinventing mobility and public transport. I suspect a big chalet.
Quite simply, I don’t believe it anymore. When they talk, I get tinnitus. Because I remain convinced that what they are is not what they have. That between the two, there is a stratosphere that separates their words from their goods.
Tell me, Mr. Nadeau, when are we going where? Renaud used to sing it without providing a response. And even though I searched for this answer for a long time, I have to admit that I will never find it.
And I am saddened by the fire of our planet and their hypocritical smiles.