Can’t recognise the season, the year,
Or which part of my life.
I know it’s Tuesday, I can feel it,
I know this bar, and it seems to know me.
But I’m not so sure of the timing anymore.
That must be called « derealization »,
I guess it happens :
You slip away from your own conscience
Of the past, present, and future,
Of what’s been lived,
What could’ve been,
Or what you think you should have lived.

Can’t say if we already met.
Is it just a while before, or long way after ?
Can’t say if you ever existed at all.
It turns like a post-trauma effect.
I just don’t remember when the car hit me,
Or was it a fall, a brain shake ?
Or was it just despair, in the last degree ?

Can’t recognize the season, the year,
Or which stage of my journey.
I only know the city,
And it’s neither hostile nor friendly,
It just won’t tell me if I’m alive or dead already.
And I’m not certain if any option really suits me.

Can’t recognise the season, the year,
Is it dawn or dusk, love or regret,
Longing or missing ?
Is it the mind willing to forecast,
When the soul’s waiting to forget ?