It seems to me that I would have something else to do than stay in my bed and watch the winter light slide down the wall. Nothing works, though. I get lost in meditative immobility, listening to the slight whistle in my ears as if it were radio waves from space.
I feel stuck, like a cat asleep in its makeshift box. Life doesn’t seem any better to me if I move my body or not. I remember the river letters I wrote to a friend in the 1980s. I sent him all my desire and my unconscious through this impulsive logorrhoea.
I can’t tell myself if he really answered them, even though I know from telling myself that he read them avidly, that he also read them to his friends. He was proud of me as a poet. I was secretly in love, I’m still a little in love, but not just with him.
I’m a romantic person. Young Werther and I, the same fight, without suicide. I have written a lot about the ocean, about the cliffs, the crash of the waves, probably to externalize the impossible victories of my too fertile imagination, unable to sow the seasons well.
And now for silence. The same loneliness as when I was fifteen years old, always living in parallel with others, my unconscious gaze, waves moving by themselves smashing against reefs, rocks, deaf hearts.
The shadows are getting longer. I always listen to this silence made of light, urban noises, and squeaking houses. I certainly don’t deny my comfort, even if I feel guilty about not doing anything significant anymore.
As if the next wisdom to understand would be one that denies everything.