Our fire | Guy Verville
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Our fire

I was particularly sick for a month. First of all, a partial sore throat that made me lose two kilos so much I couldn’t swallow anything. Then, two weeks later, mysterious rises in fever approaching forty degrees, preceded by tremors that blocked my kidneys. The appetite also disappeared. My doctor lives there with asymptomatic flu. A little over two more kilos lost, but the appetite has since returned without me being able to swallow large amounts of food.

My boss found me distant for a month. He understands that I’ve been sick, but his feeling went beyond that. I reassured him. If there is a distance, it may be in my desire for frugality and simplicity. My sky is not wrong. He had warned me of this Saturnian return that everyone is around fifty-eight, fifty-nine years old.

Time passes, there is no point in running, but in walking at the right time. I got myself a meditation application. If my brain knows all the Zen and non-zen principles of mindfulness, it is not necessarily able to impose them on itself. My body, which is also his, reminded him of this. There is no point in thinking if you don’t breathe properly.

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