Find the source, the origin, the beginning. To look. To listen to this inner score of our Humanity: these are our migrations that flow.
Would there be an original migration, to nature, to the world, to us, to me, an individual, singular, unique, shaped by the passage of time, which also comes and goes?
Interior space. External space. To oneself. The body gives itself to joy (or not) when it comes to breathing through free movements (or not). At each moment, a new page is written and erased, is lived. Language.
Everything is, becomes migration. The Source, if a Donor « exists », is then itself a migration. Like a wind of Wisdom, of Spirit that blows endlessly from within or without. Like a water which, without wave, without tumult, flows discreetly in our lands, in our seas.
Migration-source. Source of migration(s). Is it not there, the thread of Life, in our lives, its expression. In fact, death(s) or Life, according to the horizon that reveals itself, according to the glance posed, point of departure or arrival, point of docking, outward journey and return (or not), everything is, becomes, renewed, migration(s). Time escapes, space dilates but, whatever the musical arcane, in its intimate score, end or beginning, the eternal source remains: our migrations, cantus firmus.