So Bin Laden is dead

And it’s’just another day in NYC. Or so it seems. What would I know? I am just a passer-by after all.
My Metrocard says « go » when I enter the subway. There are some policemen in the corridors. Is there any threat?
What did they feel, all this people in the train, careful not to touch each other (in NYC, unlike in Paris, body promiscuity is not considered thrilling)? Half of them, black or hispanic, are headed to the Bronx, poverty, segregation, unjustice. Do they feel part of a nation who has so much rejected them? And the other half (to which I belong), white bourgeois proud of themselves exiting at UES, Park avenue, social superiority. Do they feel delighted by revenge? When does revenge stop? Who needs to revenge against whom? Maybe no one thinks nothing finally.
Why is justice so difficult? Where do we belong, if not only to humanity?
Union square. People selling t-shirts « Obama got Osama », people wearing badges « Obama got Osama ». A policeman, again. People laughing and cheering in a cozy bar, lighted by candles. A strong smell of marijuana in the street. The Empire State building is green. Irish-green or Islam-green? Hope-green? Just another day in the city.
Should we take it grand, considering the world and its major stakes, or should we just try to cope with the next street corner? Where are we headed to, in this light spring breeze? Far away I can see the WTC erecting again.
The city is sweet and bitter, again I feel like I don’t know where I belong.

Photo MB
Âgé de cent-mille ans, j’aurais encore la force
De t’attendre, o demain pressenti par l’espoir.
Le temps, vieillard souffrant de multiples entorses,
Peut gémir: neuf est le matin, neuf est le soir.
Mais depuis trop de mois nous vivons à la veille,
Nous veillons, nous gardons la lumière et le feu,
Nous parlons à voix basse et nous tendons l’oreille
A maint bruit vite éteint et perdu comme au jeu.
Or, du fond de la nuit, nous témoignons encore
De la splendeur du jour et de tous ses présents.
Si nous ne dormons pas c’est pour guetter l’aurore
Qui prouvera qu’enfin nous vivons au présent.
Robert Desnos (État de veille, 1942)