I am the sinless man. My sins are not my sins. My sins are My past. They are the factory that produced me. My mistakes are My mistakes. They are the herd that shouts my favorite words. The past is my name and I have nothing to say about what makes me what I am. I am no saint. The saints are the souls the church bundles and paints, like balloons in a pier, then hands out for children to laugh and run. And forget. I am no saint. The church has no power over me. It did not create me. My past is my creator. The past is my creator.
The reason why I am a sinless man is this: I am perfect. I owe it to my sins. Due to my flaws and drawbacks, my defects, my weaknesses and my imperfections, I am perfect. I am perfect because I am not so. I am full of shortcomings and bad habits. But these are My sins. The sins of the man I am. The man I am. For I am a human being that faults. Often, always.
Under this Parisian sun, I proudly grab my sins, before the Christ who told me he was sinless. Christ, you are not human. You are a god and hence imperfect. The scale on which I measure humanity, perfection, is one filled with possessiveness and obscenity, gluttony, stupidity, jealousy, evil, anger, hate … and love. My scale is a ruler that crushes your logic. My scale is one that out-dimensions you. Kicks you out of the only realm in which we are judged: The human realm. My realm. Our realm. The one where We build our paradise and bomb the illusions we inherited.
These are my sins. Don’t you touch them. These are my property. They are my fabric. My soul. My being. My air. My definition. Don’t you forgive me. Don’t you show me your mercy. What I’ve done, I’ve done consciously, knowingly. Humanly. My sins are a work of art. They are not to be erased by your priests and their prayers, your subjects and their lamentations. My sins are the sculpture of my life for each time I lustfully thought of a woman, each time I desired my neighbour’s wife, each time I got into a fight, each time I hated my foe, each time I felt good about bad things, each time I saw horror and smiled, each time I was jealous or tried to pursue my fantasies and obscenities, each time I lied or insulted somebody … Each and every time, I was forging my humanity. My perfect humanity, innocent of only one unforgivable crime : Hypocrisy.
My beautiful humanity that masturbates and flatters, cheats and steals. My true humanity that makes a boat out of its sins and sails over the clouds, wind in its hair, eyes half-closed, hidden behind a sad joy and the temperate smile of a traveler who’s seen everything and has yet to see everything else. My mistakes are My mistakes. They are the herd that shouts my favorite words: Travel, live, fall and rise.