The flight

My fingers are slipping avidly on Instagram, Facebook, Ello, Tumblr displays and I haven’t opened a Snapchat account yet. Hashtags and superlatives, opinions in every sense, equally ephemeral conversations that seem essential, yet as if we were all dying and, before our half vitrified eyes, our memory was being emptied into the garbage can of nothingness.

For a week now, almost all the time confined to bed, tired, irritated stomach, appetite gone, I have been traveling between two periods of sleep, and the Internet. My body chose the time of my vacation to tell me that it was enough, that I had to quit. I’m sleeping, off. However, I dream a lot. I wake up, on. I do not do much, after having suffered two and a half days of fever, wandering my eyes on the texts, the images, the inevitable American election—it is amazing how dizzy Americans can be—, the polluted Olympic waters of Brazil, obviously all the global madness—how do animals do to endure us?—my budget proposal, little things among the big questions. Then I go back to sleep, off. I never seem to dream of better days, my brain fed by a probable ulcer, turns in circles and offers me rudeness.

And all this noise of images, very precarious photos thrown by egos that don’t seem to have any more control over reality than I have over my finances.

I could be sad, I can’t be sad. I’m tired, I’m waiting for it to pass. Today, Sunday, I hooked up with Spotify, which offers me a sample of meditative melodies. Why not. Between on and off. I cannot be sad, because I know that the only way forward is to go beyond discouragement, to take one small step at a time, calmly.

I was reading in my many publications that have been published this week, like proselytizing butterflies, that you can only do something if you want to. It’s not a truism. We think that fate forces us to go here and there, that obstacles, mountains, diseases and rivers require engineering efforts from us. So be it. But in front of the river, it is free for those who are confronted with it to stay on the bank and build their camp, their village, or cut down a few trees to continue their journey.

It is true that for some time now, I have been experiencing melancholy, even depression. It may seem that I no longer do anything, that I can’t seem to decide on the way. My body didn’t have to be bothered to stop the engines. For a few days, I felt like I was continuing my flight, but then I had to realize that I had to open my arms a little bit to keep flying.

But first things first, that’s what I’m thinking. No one will dream for me. I just need a vacation, a good massage, simplicity, to quietly get my affairs in order.

It is never too late to start on time.