Je ne veux pas grandir
Mourir c’est regarder défiler son bonheur…
Etre mort, c’est vivre dans son bonheur…
Je suis en vie, alors je dois fabriquer mon bonheur. Vivre, c’est mourir un peu…
Donc vivre c’est grandir, mais je ne veux pas grandir. Le bonheur s’arrête quand on devient grand.
Mais je ne peux pas mourir, donc je ne peux pas regarder défiler mon bonheur. Et pour vivre dans la joie, il faut être mort…
Je n’ai qu’une solution: vivre dans la mort. Rêver, rêver, et rêver encore. Ainsi, je ne grandirai jamais.
Vivre c’est mourir. Mourir c’est grandir. Si je ne vis pas, je ne meurs pas. Si je ne meurs pas, je ne grandis pas.
All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, ‘Oh, why can’t you remain like this for ever!’ This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.
James Matthew Barrie, Peter Pan, or the Boy who wouldn’t grow up, 1904.
