Mural at the Jarry metro statio

The flight

Modifié le : 2019/07/13

My fin­gers are slip­ping avid­ly on Insta­gram, Face­book, Ello, Tum­blr dis­plays and I haven’t opened a Snapchat account yet. Hash­tags and superla­tives, opin­ions in every sense, equal­ly ephemer­al con­ver­sa­tions that seem essen­tial, yet as if we were all dying and, before our half vit­ri­fied eyes, our mem­o­ry was being emp­tied into the garbage can of nothingness.

For a week now, almost all the time con­fined to bed, tired, irri­tat­ed stom­ach, appetite gone, I have been trav­el­ing between two peri­ods of sleep, and the Inter­net. My body chose the time of my vaca­tion to tell me that it was enough, that I had to quit. I’m sleep­ing, off. How­ev­er, I dream a lot. I wake up, on. I do not do much, after hav­ing suf­fered two and a half days of fever, wan­der­ing my eyes on the texts, the images, the inevitable Amer­i­can elec­tion — it is amaz­ing how dizzy Amer­i­cans can be — , the pol­lut­ed Olympic waters of Brazil, obvi­ous­ly all the glob­al mad­ness — how do ani­mals do to endure us ? — my bud­get pro­pos­al, lit­tle things among the big ques­tions. Then I go back to sleep, off. I nev­er seem to dream of bet­ter days, my brain fed by a prob­a­ble ulcer, turns in cir­cles and offers me rudeness.

And all this noise of images, very pre­car­i­ous pho­tos thrown by egos that don’t seem to have any more con­trol over real­i­ty than I have over my finances.

I could be sad, I can’t be sad. I’m tired, I’m wait­ing for it to pass. Today, Sun­day, I hooked up with Spo­ti­fy, which offers me a sam­ple of med­i­ta­tive melodies. Why not. Between on and off. I can­not be sad, because I know that the only way for­ward is to go beyond dis­cour­age­ment, to take one small step at a time, calmly.

I was read­ing in my many pub­li­ca­tions that have been pub­lished this week, like pros­e­ly­tiz­ing but­ter­flies, that you can only do some­thing if you want to. It’s not a tru­ism. We think that fate forces us to go here and there, that obsta­cles, moun­tains, dis­eases and rivers require engi­neer­ing efforts from us. So be it. But in front of the riv­er, it is free for those who are con­front­ed with it to stay on the bank and build their camp, their vil­lage, or cut down a few trees to con­tin­ue their journey.

It is true that for some time now, I have been expe­ri­enc­ing melan­choly, even depres­sion. It may seem that I no longer do any­thing, that I can’t seem to decide on the way. My body did­n’t have to be both­ered to stop the engines. For a few days, I felt like I was con­tin­u­ing my flight, but then I had to real­ize that I had to open my arms a lit­tle bit to keep flying.

But first things first, that’s what I’m think­ing. No one will dream for me. I just need a vaca­tion, a good mas­sage, sim­plic­i­ty, to qui­et­ly get my affairs in order.

It is nev­er too late to start on time.