My only refuge, my soul, my breath is worried. I don’t know what to say to my thirst. Cloistered in my comfort, I sense danger as if the crust beneath my feet had already begun to tremble long before my senses alerted me to it.
Why this perpetual shift to darkness and anguish, this insistent return to light and wisdom ?
I gnaw at myself while my thoughts rage, then I take a deep breath, for I have no other strength than that. Something is calling or warning me ; I can hardly hear it. I could sing that all is well, madame la Marquise, while a logic sharpened like a guillotine makes me lose my reason.
My words, my only buoys, appear under my fingers without being able to certify that I am far from drowning. These words, which sometimes earn me polite “likes” are my comforting food.
I hardly understand ; I smile at everyone. My closed eyelids tell gory shadows. My head hurts, not quite the one under the bones, more the one that pumps my blood. Does my heart know it will die ; is it just the universal conscience that tells me so ?
How easy writing is ! They are only twenty minutes old, and they manage to put me to sleep.
I have still taken refuge in them without identifying the border or the impact. Am I poisoning or freeing myself ?
