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My barometer skin

Modifié le : 2019/08/04

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.

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