It’s been almost four months since I wrote. Not even a line, a word, only multiple and abundant thoughts. I had to check my website to convince myself that my silence was not longer than that.
I live in tired silence. My heart, formerly, poured its waters impudently. Of the sea, it seems to remain for the moment only a weak stream. It is well said that poets have real inspiration only when they are young. And yet, nothing ages in this conscience which takes the place of my personality. No doubt there are dykes upstream that only hope to give way.
Frozen frames, so to speak, since this summer. What do I hear in my fears? What is going on in my body, in my mind? I may understand the stars and feel the tectonic plates of my destiny, but I still breathe this air of hope and wishes that escapes me all the same. My keyboard is more tangible than the time that slips through my fingers.
I do not invent anything; I am only the repetition of life. What grows and dies around me belongs to the book of all.
Sometimes, if I listen carefully to the present, I recognize the same echoes as in the first hours of my adolescence. Sometimes again, when I look at pictures of a past I didn’t know, I meet my fears, desires, tenderness, and failures. My desires, above all, those that have come up against lessons greater than myself.
My fortune seems to be ineluctably linked to the slow course of Pluto, to the oceanic fog of Neptune, and to the scything of Saturn.
I am still searching, even though I listen neither to my body nor my past for days on end. I grow old, letting time become more than dust as if I had this luxury of years.
I would like to hug a young undressed sailor and be at sea with him. And this thought does not fit well in this text.
It is my heart knocking at the door of my hours.
I am made of regret as much as of selflessness. Is this wisdom or abandonment?