Waiting for spring | Guy Verville
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Waiting for spring

Modifié le : 2019/07/17

The emptiness of February and the plunge into the ordinary of transient life, I return to it; perhaps I had never left this motionless present before after all. After the emotions of the launch, I dream with my gut, nourished by the good words I receive every day, as my family and friends finish the reading. People seem to love me, they send me flowers and they are not faked. In this respect, benevolent politeness is detectable, let there be no mistake about it. An anxious author can read between the words. I don’t want us to pretend. It’s better to keep quiet than to try to please me. So for now, it’s fine. The book passes.

That’s it, yes, I’m dreaming. A book, published at the same time as me, by the same publisher, was noticed by a prominent newspaper. What about mine? Has he ever been dismissed? It is still too early to say. I have to be patient (as I have learned to be in the last three years). Fragile, the man, the cold mind, self-control in sight, very deep breaths, having already announced that it would be extra…if a good review occurred, the grief already undertaken if nothing happens, the river is really already crossed. If, in a few months, nothing is said, I won’t be seen blinking. This, as for love, is managed in the secret of my entrails.

But…

But I hit my head on the wall of the sky.

Silence has returned like a cave swollen with uncertainties. I find myself looking towards the horizon, asking for a sign, a little hug. No matter how much we want to detach ourselves from society and flattery, glory is also like love, we salivate with desire in front of it.

But what about love? Pfff. He’s here, maybe not as I would like, maybe as it should. Others suffer more than I do. So let me stop whining and taking instead a deep, noisy breath, gently expelling the air, hearing my body maintaining my existence. All this is only promise, glory, love, peace. All this is just happiness, little air pearls marking the precious hours. Is only that? Since I write aloud what I think is just as high, I get bogged down.

That is the paradox. The glass half full, half dead. Life half over, half to live. Always this prayer to understand and sow. My garden is asleep, I’m waiting for spring. One more time. That’s what it means to be alive. To be envious.

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