Funerals are used to point with diabolical precision a dart that comes to burst the abscess of pain to let it flow out gently and smooth like the infusion of a patient, it hydrates those who remain on the edge of the bank of the alive, it brings him the comfort of always being a little with the missing person, but at the same time, it reminds him of his absence… It is difficult not to revel in it and not to hate it at the same time. The loss changes the whole layout of the living because he sees the imprint of the dead everywhere, some rooms are adorned with flowers when they have never been... The dead imposes a prism on the living who sees him in places where the latter has never set foot. The mental image makes it possible to remember and to imagine and frantically intertwines the threads of one with the threads of the other in a mad saraband that intoxicates and hoarse until we are no longer able to differentiate what which is true of what we invent. Time does nothing, or rather knits this confusion. But do we still want to separate memory from imagination?

We don't mourn someone, it's mourning that shapes us, it's the loss of a loved one that shapes us.