Without a home

It’s 9:00 in the morning. Spring patiently licks its new land. I noticed last Friday, as I left the office, that the day was now coming out later in the night. Although winter is far from over, you can feel, both in the wind and in your mind, the loosening of its grip. We can’t wait for spring, I want more calm.

I don’t write here anymore. It’s not because of a lack of interest. The rapid change of course in my life, initiated in October, was certainly made without too many clashes and I am happy to have done so. However, the foundations remain fragile or uncertain. I have no fear for my job, on the contrary, I have no fear for my future. Once again, I am happy with my decision. Now I have to slowly get out of the financial quagmire into which my two feet had sunk.

I am happy, but not entirely reassured. It is probably just slow fatigue, an area of this divine discontent that probably prefers the ice of the inner winter to the quiet satisfaction of living on ordinary days. Sometimes I think to myself that I can never be happy. I prefer this destabilization because I learn, I experiment, I savor the little candies of truth that result from this tireless production of my thoughts. Like Camus, I prefer the tightrope, even if the vertigo frightens me. Is there no real happiness except in tragedy?

No, of course not. There is no real assurance between the two, only between black and white, between varnish and wood.

So I’m pursuing my little, lonely road. No matter how much I like coding, designing jQuery, Drupal or Photoshop tactics, passing by responsive considerations and the Varnish server, the protuberances of syntaxes close to machines, I remain first and foremost a romantic, a kite without a master attached to so little and who loves his singing lessons because they have awakened the throat, satisfied the expression.

Yet I have such great desires for eternal and peaceful love like a slack mother.

In short, life goes on. At the moment, I don’t listen to the tax return calls and focus on this novel that, in my head, has changed its name. "Sans demeure", without a home. As if the text could not have a real title. I don’t know what my friendly editor at VLB will say about it, as she was the first to wonder about the difficulty of understanding the first title, Les Mailles sanguines.

One thing is certain, I am no longer sure of anything and, to know it, gives me back courage. In all. Life, in our hands, is very small. The huge challenge we have is not to blow too much on this fragile ember or hold its air too much.

I still have 57 chapters to review as if they were the last that my imagination will have to produce. I say this not to be tragic, but because I am tragic-comic and fully aware of the passage of time.

Am I really?

There is no point in thinking, you have to write at the right time.