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.