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Immobile

Modifié le : 2019/07/29

I am still in that hur­ri­cane eye. I cer­tain­ly feel the wind, also hear the rumor of agi­ta­tion ; my dai­ly life is far from being calm, bills arrive, urgent requests from cus­tomers arise, choir and singing rehearsals, exer­cis­es, din­ners, lunch­es, morn­ings, friends to meet, to see for the first time, oth­ers who now seem to climb a lit­tle fur­ther away, the moth­er who had knee surgery who com­plains that it is more painful than child­birth, the suf­fo­cat­ed unrest in Syr­ia, the grow­ing tur­moil in Tunisia, the leg­isla­tive farce in France around mar­riage, the deaths in the Solomon Islands, the snow in Boston, the con­fused Cana­di­ans, the vis­it to espres­so machine sites just because mine is start­ing to make me real­ly sweat. Lit­tle bour­geois that I am, lit­tle frus­trat­ed in debt.

And then silence for an after­noon, before com­ing back to my office to cre­ate a poster for a choir. Today, the same cir­cus, a mag­a­zine of librar­i­ans to be set up, the same hours, the same way of going.

This morn­ing, the silence is sim­i­lar to yes­ter­day’s, although I can also hear the boil­ing of the humid­i­fi­er, the irreg­u­lar, and lazy car traf­fic as it should be for a Sun­day morn­ing. I also under­stand the dis­or­der of my desk, a faith­ful mir­ror of what is clut­ter­ing my mind.

The rest is just lit­er­a­ture writ­ten with a wor­ried and obsti­nate hand.

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