Vertigo
I am not here to make resolutions, because the ones stated at the beginning of this writing have more or less been flouted. I was supposed to start a daily march, and the promise was not kept. Yet, the thought is still running around. It has also worked hard, fed on a story that I always try to get published.
During that year, I revived two other stories, now suspended, like kites, from the electronic wires of the Internet. I also continued my renovations, which are well underway. I have worked and spent. I have loved, continue to be loved. And recently, I have begun to discover singing.
My life is full of life. The expectation remains the same. The idea of a seventh novel (or a collection of short stories) emerges. The working title: Vertigo. Because, before falling asleep, I often plunge into dizzying images; while waiting for the metro, I feel galvanized by the critical approach of the head-end, I observe this perfectly stable world that is told to be on the edge of the precipice. These images of the man who fell from the stratosphere frighten me. I have not yet decided to watch a video that shows this achievement. This is not a writer’s whim. I’m terrified.
That’s me, after a year. In full possession of my means, possessed by great vertigo. It is time for me to tame it or, at the very least, to submit to it without fear. Someone around me told me that I would have made a good monk. He is not wrong, even if I am one of those men who will always need firm skin to fight against. In that sense, I would have made a vicious monk. Might as well stay secular. And I like too much the baseness that words allow me, even if I don’t see in this "freedom" of the artist the right to write everything. A fiction that makes life exist is, for me, an insult to procreation.
So, Guy, will you tell me, reader, why this anguish?
So, reader, I will answer, how come you don’t hear it?
