In the pale light of their screens, they move, these strange beings in search of ephemeral riches. Their faces, tense with greed, contort at the slightest movement of the numbers, these wavering curves that they take for promises of the future. They breathe only in fits and starts, suspended in the unstable breath of the markets, like an impatient horse held back by a bridle that is too short.
In the midst of this digital tide, some, like modern prophets, whisper their certainties. "Buy here, sell there," they say, pointing to graphs saturated with bright colors. But one can guess, behind their learned calculations, a feverish anxiety, that of the gambler who knows that the wheel can stop at any moment.
With each click of the mouse, a sharp sound in the silence, like a blade splitting wood. And then, suddenly, the collapse: the market plunges. The screens turn red, like a fire ravaging a field of ripe wheat, and their trembling hands cling to their mouse, as if this small plastic object could save them from the shipwreck.
In this world of artificial light and empty promises, faces wither. But they persist, again and again, their eyes fixed on their curves, like a pilgrim scanning the horizon to glimpse the silhouette of a miracle. They do not live, these beings; they oscillate, they speculate, they lose their way. And at night, when everything goes out, one could almost hear, in the darkness, a sigh of relief, mixed with a regret they cannot name.
And you, poor spectator, who observes them, have you never felt this same absurdity, in wanting to capture the air in the hollow of your hands?