I could be nothing.

Modifié le : 2016/09/11

I dozed off for two hours this after­noon to wake up with a start, tired. When I returned to my office, I received emails from clients. I for­got to do this, there are prob­lems there, I have to get back to work. Then I dive into the sub­way to go to my singing class.

This moment, with my teacher, pass­es too quick­ly. Although I am pro­gress­ing, I feel all the work, what am I say­ing, all the con­stant effort that will have to be giv­en to hope to evolve. Singing is lib­er­at­ing, it informs me about the state of my body, how it vibrates, how it reacts to the slight­est stress. I am no longer twen­ty years old, this is reflect­ed in the ten­sion I bring to do too much well, to suc­ceed, because it is, of course, about per­for­mance and suc­cess. I am con­tin­u­al­ly striv­ing towards this goal with­out under­stand­ing what dri­ves me.

I could do noth­ing, be noth­ing. I could drop every­thing. I know that to live, you have to fight. I do it all too nat­u­ral­ly. There’s this impa­tient ember try­ing to set every­thing on fire. How­ev­er, my teacher lit­er­al­ly made me breathe through my nose today. I’m get­ting too much air right now. Clos­ing the mouth before singing, inhal­ing through the nos­trils caus­es a more nat­ur­al work of the diaphragm and pro­motes inter­nal­iza­tion. Singing is first and fore­most self-expression.

This also per­tains to writ­ing, to pho­tog­ra­phy, which I am urged to do again.

I have to rethink every­thing, breathe through my nose, less look for that air, because it is there to tell me again that I could be noth­ing, that I will be, any­way, one day or anoth­er, that noth­ing, that silence. I sing, I work, I try to love by being deeply reli­gious. It’s dif­fi­cult because I don’t want to believe stu­pid­ly. I’m not one of those inno­cent peo­ple with full hands. I am guilty of all my inten­tions and feelings.

This is a great para­dox. Every­thing is self-evi­dent, it seems to me, every­thing is log­i­cal, I under­stand, I don’t protest. How­ev­er, what should calm me down ignites me. I cling to the youth of the present time, nev­er lost, but nev­er found. A door seems to appear in the wall of my igno­rance. I hear its hinges whining.