The last chapter is written slowly. At the same time, the workload, the one who helps me put butter on my bread, which also helps me buy this bread, increases, new responsibilities arise, negotiations drag on (but in a constructive way) with a bank, my grandmother, almost a hundred years old, feels tired, is in the hospital.
I envy writers who can enjoy the luxury of paid solitude, I envy those who claim to be free. I am, assuredly, otherwise, especially in myself, and the slowness of writing is not really a hesitation waltz. Everything in its own time, say the wise men, we cannot contradict that even if we sometimes have to insist on going towards that front which advances only with small rhythmic steps, outside the usual melodies or rather, trying to follow at the same time three or four songs broadcast simultaneously.
I am often asked if I take a vacation (or drugs) from time to time. Rarely (and never for drugs, no need for that, drugs, it’s only for the disabled and the suffering. I certainly drink wine, but my doctor tells me to stop, my liver doesn’t seem to appreciate too much even if I don’t abuse it). I lived a long time with a guy who smoked his joint, he probably still smokes it. I’ve never appreciated that smoke in my lungs already cramped. My mind is naturally distracted, poetically on a high and low. This sometimes causes me unexpected problems, and I am the first saddened or hurt as if my original naivety had not resolved to grow. Thus, I am surprised by the wickedness or shrapnel, aggressive deviations, either towards myself or against a given situation.
I am certainly not an angel, but I am naturally too soft with a tendency to ulcers. Being rich and famous, I would become a gentle bourgeois sipping his chamomile infusions.
But I have to earn a living, I have to go for it, that’s how it works in this comfortable jungle of the West. However, I will keep my heart and eyes fixed on the illusions of my mind. They are my most beautiful freedoms.