Silence, sometimes, annoys me. By this, I mean death, this unbelievable nothingness, this step above the emptiness that the soul eventually makes. I am not afraid of death, I am afraid that I have not lived long enough, very naughty pretense, proud delirium, inability to relax in the face of danger.
When, after having had breakfast, done the ablutions, finished reading the newspapers, after the shower, the sneezes, after having thought about what to say next Wednesday at the Literary Pride panel (is the homosexual the only one allowed to write homosexual characters? What is this question?), after having done the tour of what I could do during the day, singing, cleaning, a walk, exercise, a website for the family, reading, more cleaning, not to mention the construction, the dilapidation of the living room, left under construction. After being placed in front of all these possibilities, I just sit in my bed, closing my tired eyes, as I did yesterday afternoon.
I have certainly worked too hard for years. The pace was steady and then, now, this pause, this uncertainty. The economy is in trouble, my savings are in trouble.
Quiet. Quiet. Waiting. Carefree.
Sigh… This is not how Marguerite Yourcenar would write (I have two of her books on the bedside table. What an imposing thing, a literary ocean like her own). I am therefore satisfied to close my eyes, probably naively hoping that it will pass. Is there not, on the horizon, the happy sun of a forthcoming publication? Haven’t I achieved my goal?
Why then this anguish? Why this fear of emptiness? I have the limbic brain of a teenager and the frontal lobe of a grandfather. Don’t worry about it too much, the writer can do anything, his literature is like the tide. The moons are in charge.
I think I’m a little short on vocabulary right now. I certainly just need to rest. There is, after all, no fire. The clock always points to the present time.