This morning I was reading one of those maxims that Facebook followers like to spread, and that urge everyone to express their feelings because the chance to do so might not happen again. It is a fact. Saving water will not protect us from thirst; it is unpredictable.
The so-called modern novels often speak only of this, of the deliverance of feelings, of the reconquest of one’s castles and estates, of inner fulfillment or of all the opposites. The dramas to be solved dance in circles around the castrated individual, obsessed for a century with romantic ideals.
The importance given to sentiment and its individual expression is such that political discourses, even those whose themes gravitate as high as the nation’s stratosphere, must address this unitary freedom. Without the bee’s growth, there could be no hive.
So be it. The problem does not come so much from the individual or society but from the failure of dialogue. When men live by love, the poet said, there will be no more misery.
Is the human race at this stage of imbalance that it no longer knows how to distinguish between things? Why do individuals only accept on the tip of their lips to bend their moods to those of others? We live too much as adults at an early age, even before we understand or control our own enjoyment. We no longer share anything, or so little, or poorly, because no one seems to be able to propose a shared morality. This is undoubtedly the genesis of the dramas, this is why we enjoy writing or playing tragedies, this is why we scream louder and louder. We become these empty barrels that end up sounding hollower and louder. Expressing our feelings cannot be done without listening to the music produced by others, without understanding the world that has created us and inhabits us.
And to achieve this, a little silence in our hearts is needed. Not that we should be silent, but rather accept to play the beautiful game of the stills, of the distillation of our brandies.
Without communicating vessels, there is no drunkenness.