"The fact of escaping obligations (flight, physical absence or misconduct)" what a misconduct it is to begin this story with the popular reference book for learning the French language.
The impulse
Him: Contemplation. Truth from falsehood in my life as a young, educated man, born into a family with no apparent history. French brand car, "C A VOUS" ritual of daily intellectual emulation, the sharpened puck at Saint Estèphe. Interesting or entertaining friends but radically not captivating. Boring what. (Yes because I am nuanced, or at least I was) An omnipresence of digital in the creation of my identity. But now daddy likes the blood-colored liquor a little too much that is the source of routine excess. Last in a line of 5, finding my place has been forever since I stopped looking for it, bored with this world in which the material is more important than the divine. It’s not the world but this civilization.
The admiration – Him: I met you on my return to Paris, it is only in France that the terrace is as culturally anchored as the national anthem. The other whose lungs must look like dust from the remains of buildings in Damascus. First interview, she gave off a crazy confidence. Despite this background of egalitarian words of fickle women who offer their bodies shamelessly or dishonestly, each part of her being formed a whole that fascinated me.
The first crystallization – She: doubt. Where is he ? Am I going to denounce him? What to do with him? My parents ? Powerless. Radical in their hopelessness, the police? The price of the guilt of a life in the dark all outlined? But why ? Why am I thinking of him. In short, I treat the problem by the symptoms, not the source.
The Getaway – Her: I fell in love with destruction, it's madness. Am i in love – Can we really talk about love, am I able to change it, am I able to make him understand that his convictions are only a hidden desire to find his place and that it is never too late to transform this destructive energy into love, not into happiness because happiness does not exist, I prefer to be alive than to be happy. And yes I love you, my conception of love is that which imposes itself on you which determines your lines of conduct, which is the most absolute gift of oneself that it is and yes I give myself to you, in your doubts your distractions so listen to me, fight with me, fight against this ideology that you carry which rots your soul like the worst bacteria, the worst virus eating away at your cells which pulls you towards darkness.
This fiction about love as a last resort demonstrates a fleeting hopelessness that is weak to the image of what brings us together. For as far away is the getaway as a radicalized young man, as far away as his youth and stolen innocence allow him to love.