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The calm slate

Modifié le : 2019/08/04

My days are tinged with tiny con­trasts, with rip­ples lick­ing the hourly beach as if noth­ing was going to hap­pen, as if every­thing had to be done. It’s not dawn or dusk, it’s noth­ing, and it’s all there.

I’m learn­ing a melody from Fau­ré, Mai, they’re lace notes. I also learn the choral pas­sages of Babi Yar, Shostakovich’s dark sym­pho­ny. I observe these peo­ple who, like those two works, oscil­late between hap­pi­ness and knowl­edge of Evil. And I haven’t had a voice in four days. It comes and goes when the lungs suc­ceed in coun­ter­act­ing cough.

I am also wait­ing for a response from a pub­lish­er. He raised his eye­brows out of inter­est, and his read­ing com­mit­tee is expect­ed to make a deci­sion short­ly. I would like to hope, I am cur­rent­ly unable to do so, for fear of see­ing fate run away if I try too hard to attract his favors.

I am nei­ther in the eye of a cyclone nor around it. I have work to get bored, I have work to do, I have singing to inspire me, I have ideas for sev­er­al sto­ries. Every­thing spreads like a calm sea. Silence in my anguish swirls in my stomach.

To be hap­py, all you have to do is firm­ly erase the slate. When I reach the riv­er, I will decide if and how to cross it.

It’s rain­ing slow­ly. It is nei­ther flood nor drought.

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