Without a home

Modifié le : 2019/07/20

It’s 9:00 in the morn­ing. Spring patient­ly licks its new land. I noticed last Fri­day, as I left the office, that the day was now com­ing out lat­er in the night. Although win­ter is far from over, you can feel, both in the wind and in your mind, the loos­en­ing of its grip. We can’t wait for spring, I want more calm.

I don’t write here any­more. It’s not because of a lack of inter­est. The rapid change of course in my life, ini­ti­at­ed in Octo­ber, was cer­tain­ly made with­out too many clash­es and I am hap­py to have done so. How­ev­er, the foun­da­tions remain frag­ile or uncer­tain. I have no fear for my job, on the con­trary, I have no fear for my future. Once again, I am hap­py with my deci­sion. Now I have to slow­ly get out of the finan­cial quag­mire into which my two feet had sunk.

I am hap­py, but not entire­ly reas­sured. It is prob­a­bly just slow fatigue, an area of this divine dis­con­tent that prob­a­bly prefers the ice of the inner win­ter to the qui­et sat­is­fac­tion of liv­ing on ordi­nary days. Some­times I think to myself that I can nev­er be hap­py. I pre­fer this desta­bi­liza­tion because I learn, I exper­i­ment, I savor the lit­tle can­dies of truth that result from this tire­less pro­duc­tion of my thoughts. Like Camus, I pre­fer the tightrope, even if the ver­ti­go fright­ens me. Is there no real hap­pi­ness except in tragedy ?

No, of course not. There is no real assur­ance between the two, only between black and white, between var­nish and wood.

So I’m pur­su­ing my lit­tle, lone­ly road. No mat­ter how much I like cod­ing, design­ing jQuery, Dru­pal or Pho­to­shop tac­tics, pass­ing by respon­sive con­sid­er­a­tions and the Var­nish serv­er, the pro­tu­ber­ances of syn­tax­es close to machines, I remain first and fore­most a roman­tic, a kite with­out a mas­ter attached to so lit­tle and who loves his singing lessons because they have awak­ened the throat, sat­is­fied the expression.

Yet I have such great desires for eter­nal and peace­ful love like a slack mother.

In short, life goes on. At the moment, I don’t lis­ten to the tax return calls and focus on this nov­el that, in my head, has changed its name. “Sans demeure”, with­out a home. As if the text could not have a real title. I don’t know what my friend­ly edi­tor at VLB will say about it, as she was the first to won­der about the dif­fi­cul­ty of under­stand­ing the first title, Les Mailles sanguines.

One thing is cer­tain, I am no longer sure of any­thing and, to know it, gives me back courage. In all. Life, in our hands, is very small. The huge chal­lenge we have is not to blow too much on this frag­ile ember or hold its air too much.

I still have 57 chap­ters to review as if they were the last that my imag­i­na­tion will have to pro­duce. I say this not to be trag­ic, but because I am trag­ic-com­ic and ful­ly aware of the pas­sage of time.

Am I really ?

There is no point in think­ing, you have to write at the right time.