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 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.