I’m moving forward.

I’m certainly moving forward. I am less sure of this when I arrive at night and go to bed. If I close my eyes too quickly, my body and heart fight for the last moments of consciousness. I probably overate tonight, and the stomach is already starting to go wrong. I don’t want to complain, there’s no reason. Buddhists say that we are what we think. And these thoughts are embodied in actions and circumstances.

All this to say that I am finally making progress only by feeling, without thinking about it, just by doing it. My silence is probably worth more than all the gold of my expectations. I act, I close my eyes, I dive. Nothing happens right away, as if my actions were seeds ready to jump to heaven, yet held back by an endless cold season. I move forward and keep listening.

On the one hand, work seems to be resuming, on the other hand, debts are accumulating. In the courtyard, a friend of mine, a writer, offered to review Les Mailles sanguines. On the garden side, the mystery editor, whose name I can’t reveal, doesn’t give any sign of life. I will probably have to make decisions sooner or later, but this is not the time yet, not the season. When there is spring, I will judge the soil and the garden.

In the meantime, I move forward, live. Like a melody that you have to master.