Sitting on my yoga mat, I look out the window onto a patch of sky. A tree, in the distance, taller than all the houses, shivers with the breath that surrounds it. And I close my eyes, open them again, the merry-go-round continues while I try to relax in vain.
I observe the immobility of the two armchairs in front of me. I take note of the beige of the walls. I listen to almost always the same music album ambio-instrumental as if I had to close the least originality because this music soothes me. No, it makes me more silent, wipes the sweat from my thoughts, dries my existence.
Moved by chance, I get up, stand straight, close my eyes. If I try to stand on one foot, I immediately get dizzy and have to look out through the window again to regain my balance. With both feet on the ground, that is fine. I close once more my eyes, stretch my arms above me, expand my lungs and bend over, reaching my toes with my fingers. I bow my knees, slowly come up, digging in my abdomen. With my eyes thus closed, I perceive more my body, my breath, my existence.
All that I can undertake with both feet on the ground is acclimatized by my voluntary blindness. Still, if I try either a spreading of the legs or an unusual pivoting, I have to fight against a clumsiness that I try as well to explore.
My fifteen-minute pseudo yoga interpretation is a sad and peaceful game. It hushes the anger of my boredom, a sometimes dizzying frustration that I am useless right now, that there is nothing left to say or think.
Yet, I read a lot during this short vacation. My eyes hurt, oddly also enough my left shoulder. Everything could change, it seems to me, soon. My reality appears blurred and imprecise.
And I can’t help it.
I don’t want to discuss it.
I am afraid.
And I pull myself together.
I close my eyes again, continuing my meditative listening to this haunting, sweet music, a sad or comforting ballad, on the delicate thread of reality or truth. Oblivion or presence, it’s all the same when you think about it. The dream or the awakening is the same brain that smokes of it good.
Our soul, the one that only we know, is indeed a burning fire, a source of inexhaustible wisdom. It is so astonishing that the heat that emanates from it smells both of Shiva’s sulphur and of the sandalwood of infinity.
Mathematics, these days, makes us discover the infinite and immortality.
My closed eyes remain a bottomless abyss without end.
I cannot do anything about it.
I discuss it with the spirits that haunt me.
I am not really afraid.
Fragile, evanescent, my soul.
It must be the season.
When I published this text, I realized that I was writing a bit of the same thing almost a year ago to the day.