Not seeing the season

It’s not that I don’t have enough words. The word remains voluble in my thoughts. However, it is elsewhere than on the Internet, in the mesh of my novel. Writing bewitches me, almost forbids my other visions as if my mind was ignited by a single doctrine.

We, the living, pass through the streets of days, our schedules, our missions, our duties and permissions, our intertwined universes, drown our hours, which seem to accelerate to the point that we lose the details on the horizon. It is surely wise to spare your efforts, because exhaustion, like a wolf, awaits only that.

We must, therefore, sometimes remain silent, sprinkle with silence the soil of our speeches. Patience is all the nobler when you don’t know where the seasons are going. The train may be going too fast, but if we close our eyes, we suddenly see another landscape. And everything seems to be more precise and clear again.

We always finish entering the station.