It is very hot and very humid in Paris today. The trains are not air conditioned and I can feel the human heat escape as the doors open and I get in and sit near the window. People around me are sighing and complaining. I am reading a book: about a 54 year old janitor of a posh residential building in Paris, who has spent years hating these rich people, making herself inconspicuous and devouring litterature and art, hating her parents who never cared for her future when she was young, hating that unknown rich man who betrayed her sister and left her to die in thunderous rains. And then, after 54 years, her life alters as two people coming from the very milieu she hates: a 60 year old rich but simple man, and a 12 year old rich but simple girl. She realises that she is now capable of loving again, sure that her fate won't be the same as her sister's.
3 weeks of this joy and she gets killed by a truck as she races across the street to push a drunk beggar off it. As she lies on the concrete knowing full well that she is going to die, she thinks of all the happy moments of her life. 54 years of life and 2 pages full of happy moments. Just this realisation brings a tear to my eye. 54 years of existence, but happy moments that can qualify as lifetimes. This is life: Looking for eternal moments in an ordinary ourney...chercher les toujours dans le jamais. C'est ça la vie: chercher les toujours dans le jamais.
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