In our busy daily lives, our minds are at the helm of a distracting and challenging universe. It is therefore fortunate that, on the lower floors, people are discreetly activated, on the lookout for their emotions, carrying out their wishes, as a sound machine that only complains at mealtimes, when the bins are full or when the batteries need to be recharged.
I read from Havi Carel that being sick transforms the opacity of the body. From the invisible, it takes up a brutal place in the living room. I’m not ill, but my body doesn’t call me any less to order.
It signals to me, through the skin, that it is time to slow down the machine. The eyes mostly suffer. Eyelids get hot, orbits dry out, and at times of high stress, psoriasis empties the swamps.
Nothing serious so far.
“You work too much,” one of my certainties will say, “you worry too much,” another will tell. “Are you chasing after your shadow?” will ironize the conscience.
Probably. I don’t know what else to do right now. I’m furiously zen. I’m not trying any complaints. I have little hope of getting the favors of a publisher, who has shown interest, but his response seems dangerously slow. I also have all my hours, not having a job in sight. I have my apartment to finish, I have my budget to straighten out, I have my inspiration to recreate. It is so a little human misery because, on the other side of the scale, I have a roof over my head, I eat and love to my heart’s content.
I repeat, I go around in circles inside an elusive quadrature.
So don’t be surprised if your skin is weak… May my body excuse and protect me. I only scream at myself.