I have just read the previous text, which is already three months old. I haven’t written anything here since then. It is indeed a wall. My sight only sees the cement well caught between these bricks that are days. Things are still going as well and as bad as ever. On the one hand, social and professional stability, on the other hand, insecurity of heart, bizarre events, love between two waters, the novel that returned from where it had come, in the silence of what is being accomplished, the finances that remain so precarious that I will probably be forced to put the house on sale in March, the humans that I observe with my evil eye, sometimes kind, sometimes surprising, that turn out to be either undrinkable or misleading, my boredom too, my silence and my singing.
So my shoelaces, always untied, are a great mystery to me. I am almost fifty-seven years old and I still can’t keep my them tied. We can see the very nature of my existence, my presence on this planet. Ready for the march, but often stopping to do what was undone.
My wall, then. I have a mass in my hands. I wonder who will win, the logical fate that my destiny holds for me or those arms that want to build, rebuild, always move forward, even if they regularly have to stop their momentum to deal with the loose ends.
My wall, my boredom. I’ve been telling myself for a few days that I’m a boring spirit. When I come back from the office, I tend to continue my work, to program and thus avoid reality, my cowardly ends like these fools who, to stop the imminent collapse of the dam, find no better way than to put their finger on the crevasse larger than their hand.
I don’t know what to say, worried, crying again during Christmas time, indulging in loneliness and disappointment, becoming a bear like a monk, sad like an adult.
It had to come out, that’s how the bad stuff comes out.