Slightly, the pain
Entire days to live. Huge hours to fill. My mind, happy, but tormented, opens its hands wide. I have difficulty describing my feelings, my sensations as if a cyclone would fall on the few certainties that serve as my conscience. I am just finishing a reading on Nietzsche’s thinking and getting ready to start an introduction to existentialism. I want to know where the thinking stands on this point.
The world is absurd, God is dead, we still live under the imposing shadow of Yahweh while barbarians cling violently to the writings of those old books that have made us so lazy. I went to a funeral a month ago. We went there to sing for a former chorister who died too soon. The old priest gave us a most decadent sermon. His short-sighted theological reasoning amazed me. Why doesn’t God tell us what happens after death? Why all this mystery? Well, the answer, or stupidly, this nice and stupid priest was presenting to us is that if we knew it we would kill ourselves right away, to go to Heaven in a jiffy. Big deal. Yet, my good priest, drinking your cigüe is already an intellectual suicide.
How can we think of elevating the human mind with such horrors of reasoning? God is betting on our stupidity? Come on. He’s certainly no better than Shiva.
I, with this smallness that serves as my breath, want to have better courage. This is certainly a difficult task. I’ll probably make it the subject of my next novel. Time is running out, so to speak. And since winter will arrive soon enough, I have to try the most authentic dance.
It’s like Mozart. Vincent, my teacher, brings my voice back to the high center. I’m probably too tired right now (or too old) to constantly sail beyond the D. So it’s like Mozart and this new piece that I have to learn: "Abendempfindung an Laura" (Twilight Feelings for Laura), a pretty song (lied). Mozart, the joyful darkness, the one who could walk on the calm water of the abyss. A beautiful 18th-century poetry, melancholic and sweet.
Strange, though. No matter how much you feel the call of the shadows, you are immediately turned away from them when you start singing. That’s how men go to war, that’s how women give birth.
I have great pleasure in singing, in anchoring my heels in this ground that knows how to hold me back, in raising my spine and in throwing, not very far into the sky, certainly, but still, in defying gravity with a few words well slipped under the palate.
That’s right. You have to dance, sing. Soberly and happy to exist. We must rely on our existence by constantly beating in our heads the measures of our humble melody.
It’s evening, the sun has disappeared
And the moon shines with a silvery glow.
And so the most beautiful hours of life flee
That fly away like dancing.
Soon the colorful scene of life flees
And the curtain falls.
Our show is over, the friend’s tear is gone
Sink already on our grave.
Soon perhaps (a peaceful feeling,
As a light westerly wind invades me)
Will I complete the pilgrimage of this life
And will I fly to the land of rest?
Then it will be up to you to cry on my grave
Saddening you to contemplate my ashes;
So, my friends, I want to appear to you
And from heaven, give you breath.
Make me, you too, present with a little tear
And pick a violet for me from my grave,
Then gently incline towards me
Your soulful look
Dedicate me a tear and don’t have to
Alas, shame to consecrate it to me.
She will then be in my tiara.
The most beautiful pearl.
