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The rain of time

Modifié le : 2019/07/20

Time does not stop. It is emp­ty at the moment and full at the same time. Emp­ty because it does not seem to indi­cate the direc­tion of my life, full because, obvi­ous­ly, with­out my mak­ing an effort, with­out me being able, in any case, to fight against this fact, time is run­ning out between my fingers.

This is not new. Every­one knows that.

Sum­mer is good, sun­ny, some­times a lit­tle too hot, but it knows how to quench its thirst with his spo­radic rains. Spi­ders are valiant in dec­o­rat­ing half-opened win­dows with their webs.

I am emp­ty and full, too, like this riv­er time, this wind time, this breath time. Emp­ty since the brain is look­ing for answers, full because the future is abun­dant of promis­es. Still emp­ty, since I have few resources, full all the same because, in the end, it does­n’t matter.

I emp­ty my desk, I sold my com­put­er, I gave, with a big pinch in my heart, my 27″ mon­i­tor, I still have some equip­ment left that I would have to dis­pose of. A few announce­ments on Kiji­ji will do the trick. I will give this, I will give that. I will emp­ty the room so that I can final­ly fin­ish it. I would also like to clean and emp­ty my web­site a lit­tle bit because I don’t real­ly take pic­tures, I’m no longer self-employed. It would be bet­ter to erase the slate, erase that sand mandala.

I also emp­ty my sched­ules, some­what. I decid­ed not to go back to singing at Ganymède’s this sea­son. I need to emp­ty this to fill my voice dif­fer­ent­ly. My singing teacher wants me to be a tenor, so I emp­ty my bari­tone voice to fill it, to dis­cov­er the one, high­er, of the tenor. “You’re 55 years old, but now you have to sing like a young first because that’s what to be tenor is all about,” Vin­cent added. Well, let it be ! Let’s play the young-first uncle.

I have noth­ing to lose, noth­ing to emp­ty, noth­ing to fill, every­thing is trans­ferred in the purest style of stills.

I should soon receive my revised man­u­script. The nov­el will be pub­lished on Octo­ber 30 if all goes well. My sky chart agrees with all of this and that’s good. I am hap­py all the same, even if sleep is often difficult.

My doc­tor called me. My sug­ar lev­el is ris­ing. My body is fill­ing up. There’ll always be things to emp­ty. Any­way, that’s how time feeds its world.

And then I met my par­ents at Dominique’s birth­day, who turn 50. There’s only one left in the fam­i­ly under that bar. I regret­ted that I could­n’t talk more to my moth­er and father. There were too many peo­ple there. I don’t have a car, I don’t have too many resources, while the time for them is run­ning out as fast as mine. I found them cer­tain­ly live­ly, alert, but still a lit­tle old­er. My ten­der­ness towards them only dou­bles. They prob­a­bly blame me, through their silence, for the fact that I do not vis­it them more. When we want, we can… but it is true that, when we can­not, there is no point in want­i­ng too much. Every­thing will have its season.

Some­times I won­der if I’m uncon­scious­ly afraid of this pass­ing time, but it’s real­ly hap­pen­ing too fast. I often feel like an impos­tor with my fine words. At the very least, I am learn­ing to emp­ty my brain of that pride that is of lit­tle use. I emp­ty, but in vain, I know it, because it is for­tu­nate­ly filled imme­di­ate­ly, like a thirsty land drink­ing the rain of time.

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