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The illusions

Modifié le : 2019/08/08

The last chap­ter is writ­ten slow­ly. At the same time, the work­load, the one who helps me put but­ter on my bread, which also helps me buy this bread, increas­es, new respon­si­bil­i­ties arise, nego­ti­a­tions drag on (but in a con­struc­tive way) with a bank, my grand­moth­er, almost a hun­dred years old, feels tired, is in the hospital.

I envy writ­ers who can enjoy the lux­u­ry of paid soli­tude, I envy those who claim to be free. I am, assured­ly, oth­er­wise, espe­cial­ly in myself, and the slow­ness of writ­ing is not real­ly a hes­i­ta­tion waltz. Every­thing in its own time, say the wise men, we can­not con­tra­dict that even if we some­times have to insist on going towards that front which advances only with small rhyth­mic steps, out­side the usu­al melodies or rather, try­ing to fol­low at the same time three or four songs broad­cast simultaneously.

I am often asked if I take a vaca­tion (or drugs) from time to time. Rarely (and nev­er for drugs, no need for that, drugs, it’s only for the dis­abled and the suf­fer­ing. I cer­tain­ly drink wine, but my doc­tor tells me to stop, my liv­er does­n’t seem to appre­ci­ate too much even if I don’t abuse it). I lived a long time with a guy who smoked his joint, he prob­a­bly still smokes it. I’ve nev­er appre­ci­at­ed that smoke in my lungs already cramped. My mind is nat­u­ral­ly dis­tract­ed, poet­i­cal­ly on a high and low. This some­times caus­es me unex­pect­ed prob­lems, and I am the first sad­dened or hurt as if my orig­i­nal naivety had not resolved to grow. Thus, I am sur­prised by the wicked­ness or shrap­nel, aggres­sive devi­a­tions, either towards myself or against a giv­en situation.

I am cer­tain­ly not an angel, but I am nat­u­ral­ly too soft with a ten­den­cy to ulcers. Being rich and famous, I would become a gen­tle bour­geois sip­ping his chamomile infusions.

But I have to earn a liv­ing, I have to go for it, that’s how it works in this com­fort­able jun­gle of the West. How­ev­er, I will keep my heart and eyes fixed on the illu­sions of my mind. They are my most beau­ti­ful freedoms.

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