Not all reality is expressed in the same way. I woke up angry, not that there was a real object, but because of a dream that flared up before I opened my eyes. Once the light was shining on my thoughts, I had no more reason to get excited. So goes the time in my brain, like a comet fraying its ice in the hope of attracting a sun.
My looks, my many blows in the light, offer me no answer. I thirst for transmutations, indefinable experiences. I seem to possess as much imagination as during my youthful flights of fancy. Still, this Saturnian time in my sixties quickly dissolves its interest, even its course.
I have to constantly travel in the symmetry of the octaves during my singing lessons. After having tamed a little bit the low sounds, I the whisperer, my teacher is telling me to attack the A-flat, B-flat, B-flat, etc. He seems to know where he's going and I'm letting myself be led frighteningly.
It is said that, to interpret dreams, the mind must be allowed to jump to all possible conclusions without dwelling on them. This exercise seems to me to be similar to Buddhist instructions which require constant doubt. Yet I was happy to wake up and cling to the reality I had patiently built. This is a beautiful paradox because I was writing just yesterday that I aspired to the new, to the different, to magic.