Maybe it’s the humidity and heat, perhaps there will have been too much wine, maybe I’ve revised too much L’Effet Casimir, a little bit of that. Sleep was not coming. My old text causes me some problems. I am surprised that the publisher at the time allowed so many mistakes to pass. It is true that in his very early publishing days, he did everything by himself.
I am blind, I let myself be taken by history, and my brain is a net with unequal and too wide meshes. Maybe it’s the impatience. Perhaps it’s the lamentable state, in the end, of what I think is my talent. Maybe it’s just lousy recklessness. Perhaps that’s all it is.
Last night, insomnia looked like these sudden ice jams that have titanic strength to stop things from happening. The river rises without giving the residents any chance, panic seizes everyone, the universe falls into chaos. My judgment stops, drowns, and I forget that I have to sleep. The slightest thought turns into trouble, the smallest nonsense requires a solution before leaving me in peace. It’s the storm and the devastation.
Perhaps it is the shock of all these words, of what I wanted to express, maybe it is this mirror of my thought that shows me as I am, an ambivalent being, who has remained to heal emotional scratches without consequence as if I preferred suffering to wisdom.
And then, whatever. The wind this morning is forecasting rain. The heat clamp will loosen. Tomorrow will be another day. Time, too, repeats itself, repeats the same things. Bis repetita placent. People like repetitive things. We can only submit to it to fall asleep a little bit. Before we start walking again.