the loose ends

Modifié le : 2019/07/14

I have just read the pre­vi­ous text, which is already three months old. I haven’t writ­ten any­thing here since then. It is indeed a wall. My sight only sees the cement well caught between these bricks that are days. Things are still going as well and as bad as ever. On the one hand, social and pro­fes­sion­al sta­bil­i­ty, on the oth­er hand, inse­cu­ri­ty of heart, bizarre events, love between two waters, the nov­el that returned from where it had come, in the silence of what is being accom­plished, the finances that remain so pre­car­i­ous that I will prob­a­bly be forced to put the house on sale in March, the humans that I observe with my evil eye, some­times kind, some­times sur­pris­ing, that turn out to be either undrink­able or mis­lead­ing, my bore­dom too, my silence and my singing.

So my shoelaces, always untied, are a great mys­tery to me. I am almost fifty-sev­en years old and I still can’t keep my them tied. We can see the very nature of my exis­tence, my pres­ence on this plan­et. Ready for the march, but often stop­ping to do what was undone.

My wall, then. I have a mass in my hands. I won­der who will win, the log­i­cal fate that my des­tiny holds for me or those arms that want to build, rebuild, always move for­ward, even if they reg­u­lar­ly have to stop their momen­tum to deal with the loose ends.

My wall, my bore­dom. I’ve been telling myself for a few days that I’m a bor­ing spir­it. When I come back from the office, I tend to con­tin­ue my work, to pro­gram and thus avoid real­i­ty, my cow­ard­ly ends like these fools who, to stop the immi­nent col­lapse of the dam, find no bet­ter way than to put their fin­ger on the crevasse larg­er than their hand.

I don’t know what to say, wor­ried, cry­ing again dur­ing Christ­mas time, indulging in lone­li­ness and dis­ap­point­ment, becom­ing a bear like a monk, sad like an adult.

It had to come out, that’s how the bad stuff comes out.