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.