The discipline of morning walking is gradually becoming a necessity. As I step outside, I get a desire to spend the day there, to take a path, to go straight ahead without turning around, as if my past would irreparably change me into a salt carried by the wind.
My walking is faster and, like a bubble that rushes to the surface to die, I consume distance. It must be said that 1) I am thirsty again, 2) I just need a vacation. And, 3) I need to let myself be carried away by magical phenomena.
I could get drunk, but I’ve never really taken drugs or alcohol, and my doctor warns me to moderate my already harmless consumption of wine. As Baudelaire would have said, we don’t really need drugs to create (I didn’t read Les Paradis artificiels, and I had to visit Wikipedia. I thought it was a poem. I am of an unculture…).
The creator’s brain already contains an enviable pharmacopeia of imaginary fluids. A too high alteration of his consciousness would undoubtedly take him for a time to unsuspected lands and this journey could inspire him for a lifetime, but could just as quickly push him against the wall of nothingness. Few can face vacuum. I don’t know if I can do it, even if I long for it and even if I often dream about it.
I’ll walk then. I observe the last plants that have resisted the cold so far, I see the pigeons that stand quietly above the boulevards, I walk, I hurry the step, I run after my breath and my inspiration. I wonder what I have to write now. Writing this blog may not yet be a necessity. I may seem Zen, but in me, volcanoes clash. It’s a cliché from my imagination. Silence is also a step. The slope, however, on this path is so steep.