Am I really sad?

Modifié le : 2016/08/30

A friend remarked to me the oth­er day that I seemed sad, at least from what he deduced about my books and the few writ­ings I received here. My moth­er also remarked to me a long time ago that when I was young, I only wrote sad things, trou­bled poems.

I think you have to be sad to go beyond appear­ances. The “pos­i­tive” peo­ple, who only see the beau­ti­ful bib­li­cal side of things, the Phar­isees of cer­tain­ty and integri­ty, very lit­tle for me.

I don’t feel sad. Anx­ious, cer­tain­ly, wait­ing, of course, but espe­cial­ly intense. I have close friends who know me bet­ter and who know that I am a buf­foon, a kind of clown. How many times have I heard about me : “stu­pid!”. And they know full well that my sen­su­al­i­ty is nev­er gra­tu­itous, that I take a very lit­tle offense to taboos, as long as we are sin­cere and hap­py to live.

But, in the end, yes, I am sad, want­i­ng to under­stand what dri­ves me. Every caress, all the smiles, all the friend­ships are, for me, as many oppor­tu­ni­ties to plow my life, to make it fertile.

I am a vine plan cling­ing to its rocky soil. And with the fruit of my ges­tures, my writ­ings, I try to pro­duce intoxication.