The wall

I am far from being calm, stuck in a long breath as if, in front of me, the hori­zon was expand­ing from a cat­a­stro­phe fore­told. My eyes, tired, only want to sleep, nets with loose and soft mesh­es. Every­thing is fine, Mar­quise, every­thing is real­ly fine, what should I real­ly com­plain about ?

I don’t know. The days are full, I for­get to write about them, the things to do are jostling in my agen­da. I would­n’t mind so much if what pulls me so high was­n’t stub­born­ly blocked by what roots me.

My astro­log­i­cal chart, a great expert, told me so. For the moment, I am trapped, I swim in a sol­id mass, not very con­ducive to free­dom. I still man­age to float despite bud­get con­straints that con­tin­ue to con­strain me, despite the bad fate cast to my entourage that makes the banks blink, despite this hap­pi­ness hung on the Inter­net, in the hope that one day, the beau­ti­ful kite will sail under the same sky.

I’m not unhap­py. But since the step is long, slow. I still walk my days, I feel these lungs rock­ing me like a car­ing moth­er. There’s got to be a lit­tle hope behind all this. I lis­ten, observe what sur­rounds me. I record, per­haps even more fine­ly than usu­al, the aston­ish­ing man­i­fes­ta­tion of life, of the universe.

But I have this wall, in front of me, this cur­tain. I can no longer invent my future. This is also reflect­ed in the singing. I reached some heights, I freed my voice. How­ev­er, every­thing is crack­ing these days. And Ital­ian opera is not the best melody to sing. I’m blow­ing myself up, more scream­ing than a duck.

I pray my ances­tors, I drop the neck, with no oth­er words than the shad­ow that this wall of uncer­tain­ty sends back to me.

Every­thing is fine, Mar­quise, every­thing is fine. It is the opti­mistic’s nature to wade into uncon­scious­ness. He is promised Par­adise, I hear. What more can I say ? Noth­ing. I make this wall my lamen­ta­tion wall. That’s the way it is.