Who remembers you and who still cares for you, Abdallah? Who? They forgot you. They buried you. They committed your suicide. From the wire, you fell.  They are disappointed, you fell. They look away. Such cruelty. They move on. Will they return to you one day, all those who surround him, him the great genius, the small and highly impressive man, Jean Genet? Will they return one day? Will he return one day, the man who raised you so high, so high, up where he told you to fly? Perhaps yes, perhaps no. In the small Parisian studio he rented for you, you are alone, so alone. He almost never comes anymore. You are abandoned, wounded, disabled, at the end of your rope, at the end, what will you do? Which of yesterday’s friends have called? You do nothing. You lie there. You stare at the ceiling. You listen to the sounds of the building. You hope. He is on his way, Jean Genet. He will knock. Who’s there? Jean, is that you?

You’ll grow up and you’ll forget, they all said, all of them. They were wrong, obviously. I know that now. I’m 50 years old. Forgetting doesn’t exist. Forgiveness doesn’t exist. And reconciling with the past seems to be the most difficult thing to do. We stop running sometimes. We dare to look back. A bygone time still alive in us, in me, reveals itself. An old film starts to play again. Back then. Before. Life. Years. Losses. Regrets. Graves. Some flowers. Some bursts of laughter. And already the tears are falling. There’s nothing else to do. Let the dead images of childhood and adolescence return, resurge, relive. A resurrection. A miracle. Really? I can’t resist.