when sunlight has a scent...

"beyond the window there is a garden, but i can only see its walls. and a few branches flowing with light. a little higher. i see more branches, and higher still the sun. and of all the jubilation of the air that can be felt outdoors, of all that joy spread out over the world, i can see only shadows of branches playing on white curtains. there are also five rays of sunlight patiently pouring into the room the white scent of dried grass. a breeze, and the shadows on the curtains come to life. if a cloud covers up the sun and then lets it through again, the bright yellow of the vase of mimosa leaps out of the shade. the birth of this single flash of brightness is enough to fill me with a confused and whirling joy.

a prisoner in the cave, i live alone and look at the shadow of the world. a january afternoon. but the heart of the air is full of cold. everywhere a thin film of sunlight that you could split with a touch of your fingernail, but which clothes everything in an eternal smile. who am i and what can i do - except enter into the movement of the branches and the light, be this ray of sunlight in which my cigarette smolders away, this soft and gentle passion breathing in the air? if i try to reach myself, it is at the heart of this light that i am to be found. and if i try to taste and understand this delicate flavor that contains the secret of the world. it is again myself that i find at the heart of the universe. myself, that is to say this intense emotion which frees me from my surroundings. soon, my attention will be filled again with other things and with the world of men. but let me cut out this moment from the cloth of time as other men leave a flower in the pages of a book. in it, they enclose the memory of a walk in which they were touched by love. i also walk through the world, but am caressed by a god. life is short, and it is a sin to waste one's time. i waste my time all day long, while other people say i do a great deal. today is a resting place, and my heart goes out to meet itself.

if i still feel a grain of of anxiety, it is at the thought of this unseizable moment slipping through my fingers like a ball of quicksilver. let those who want to, stand aside from the world. i no longer feel sorry for myself, for now i see myself being born. i am happy in this world for my kingdom is of this world. a cloud passes and a moment grows pale. i die to myself. the book opens at a well-loved page - how tasteless it is when compared to the book of the world. is it true that i have suffered, is it not true that i am suffering? and that i am drunk with this suffering because it is made up of that sun and these shadows, of this warmth and that coldness which can be felt afar off, at the very heart of the air? what cause to wonder if something dies or men suffer, when everything is written on this window where the sun pours forth its fullness? i can say, and in a moment i shall say, that what counts is to be true, and then everything fits in, both humanity and simplicity. and when am i truer and more transparent than when i am in the world?

moment of adorable silence. but the song of the world rises and i, a prisoner chained deep in the cave, am filled with delight before i have time to desire. eternity is here while i was waiting for it. now i can speak. i do not know what i could wish for rather than this continued presence of self with self. what i want now is not happiness but awareness. one thinks one has cut oneself off from the world, but it is enough to see an olive tree upright in morning sun, to feel this separation melt away. this with me. i became aware of the possibilities for which i am responsible. every minute of life carries with it its miraculous value, and its face of eternal youth".

albert camus, notebooks, 1930's