accumulation neuroses futile, stupid and potentially dangerous, but absolutely necessary to my existence.
throat encased in a black tie, smothering under a light scent and anonymously, sweating bad coffee, I speak with a stoic efficiency at a meeting without color. Scroll down my face expressions learned. My mind assembled mechanically words and sends them to the chain, subtly modulated by human intonations falsely, to this audience ruminant. I wonder at the durability of this mechanism, which day after day gets under way, and does not seize. I dread the expected failure of this improbable hoax. The mask held there for another hour? Another five minutes and I can go out, breathe. I imagine an actor, I invent games to take a few moments more. The entire morning can be. And then sometimes, surreptitiously, the eye disorder. The time to fetch a document in my suitcase, a pained expression distorts my face, I pretend not to find document Searched, I earn twenty seconds under the table, drops a sigh, bite my lip, and back to the table, impassive and smiling coldly.
And the break in the toilet, I stared at me, clinging to the lavatory. Trembling under the effect of coffee, I watch my face and I have not changed. The mask is transparent, dark circles are real, and modulated my voice was not human. I think about my breathing, my chest seems stiff.
I try to decorate the mask pouts some rigor. I rarely leave in recent days. For the credibility of the thing, I decorate. Smiles and attentions of witticisms, compliments of the shovel. Sometimes I pretend compassion before any complainant. This appeasement of surface finish can be impregnated by a little more deeply my flesh ... I mean
rain and sunshine, and just under my skin, I feel blades that slowly settle. And under my disembodied speech, I repeat a thousand arguments to convince me of the absurdity of my pain. They're healing, ten minutes, and then I forget the blade and slice again.
I had not slept the night before. I turned into a typhoon indefatigable, freezing my veins, shaking me, illuminating my Board of harsh lights and cold. I turned around for hours in my bed, a prisoner of my impotence as a straightjacket. My
capricious boils were of no avail in the morning nothing had changed. Strangle my pillow did not provide any particular improvement, any more than the repeated bites in the sheets ripped apart. Always the typhoon in my belly, and its haunting cries that covered my thoughts. Screams, silence, what is the difference? Lack, always there, sleep less, and rabies have resumed. The shame of myself again inflicted stupidly, this voluntary torture. After some struggles
, saved by the recklessness and abandonment, I manage to sleep peacefully. And then at night I open one eye, and he is there at the bedside. Intently watching my sleep illusory, a smile of disdain at the corner of his mouth. And it is necessary, chasing dreams sweet fleeing at his approach. Silent, staring into my eyes, the poison is there. He clasps his heart in his hand and cold makes it beat. First slowly, then faster and faster, and never leave my eyes.
But I got up, automatically, mesmerized by my poison. I Typhoon took my hand and we went to work. The routine for both of us. The poison, typhoon, black tie, mask polite, and time passes too slowly distilled ... And in every minute flowing, concentrate the poison.
Sometimes I lie awake in my house to my office in the morning, scanning the moon for an anxious eye. From a vacant eye and crazy flowing underneath the deep dark circles and dry. On the eye and which formed protruding on a screen that lights up my face a livid light.
I entertained in these musings of a passionate night with a telephone, turning every ten minutes, until it finally spits these few words I expect. I torture my nails scratching the screen smooth and death, shaking as I shook my fevers. More than once I nearly exploded against a wall ... But we must preserve the lives of hostages, including a confession ... we hope
This was one example I could cite it as one hundred . Hundred things I need, a hundred things that haunt me to make me sick, every day. And every day one of them is so strong that it permeates every cell of my body. I conquer, the price of some fevers, and it is his sister who attacks me, then his daughter and then his shadow. So the days pass.
For years, I strictly forbid me to wince in the rain. Each storm is an excuse for this childish challenge. I cross, expressionless, and I remain unaffected by water running down my face. What could some
grin against the elements? A distorted face is it less permeable or less sensitive? I see in this discipline the embryo of a victory over the pain I suffered. I do not have the same wisdom to bad weather plaguing under my skin.
These paths cross paths are hidden shortcuts or detours, whatever, that j'empreinte to happiness. If I have so much trouble, does that mean I go? Child I dreamed for hours in front of the stone crosses and lace that flourished in the moors of Brittany ...
How many ruins in the lower house? How many wars have overwhelmed? How many times he was again rebuilt, and with this morbid obstinacy and laughable at the same place so vulnerable, where necessarily the enemy comes back, where they will remain easy prey balls heavy and cold ... So I
rebuild, the same material so fragile, perpetually. And on the same floor where furniture and sinking, slowly but inexorably, my foundation. I feel the soles of my feet up the heat of hell. I keep the nose in the air, stretching like a marshmallow ... Always the same pains, the same questions, same mistakes, the same vagaries.
I often persuaded, perhaps to console me, it could be otherwise. Without these neuroses and addictions without these, what would happen to me? Without this typhoon roared through my veins, what a sad breeze would turn my blood? Where fleet generally stifling the fragrance poisons my dears, would I support clean air and fresh, sanitized?
I certainly decrease, very slowly, like a balloon punctured, without consistency, without stress, without pressure.
You say one day we will get used to their absence, emptiness, lack, the latent dissatisfaction. It clings to the belief that the reason comes back, it grows with time. That adolescence is just lazy little linger in a corner from us. One day, certainly, the body will simply happy little soul and to delight in his dreams, as in his memories, and remain deaf to the song the thousand mermaids.
But the days pass. The addiction is increasing, pounding his claims, struggling, taking us hostage.
But this poison is me and nothing other than me. It is my lot, the life that I received and I shall have more. This weakness is myself, this pain is proof of that life.
The energy of the fall, propels me through the day in depths of love, I fall again as I fell often with great belief, sometimes with enthusiasm, with relish. I was complaining, especially people judge me, I was taking pity on the victim of my immaturity. But I never have complained of these poisons there.
I feared so, and I complained often, when alone in the morning on an empty stomach and neck typhoon deserted by the smell of poison, I got up too cold, and pale as the moon left me numb.
For when flies are also poisons my soul, and appear around me happiness too intense for reasons too wise. So I fly in my typhoon, far far behind the front man of the mask, to divine pleasures that I pay in sleepless nights.
And these pleasures there, what happiness there is joy to which I am entitled. It is happiness to me allocated. Dare to tell me, if your time is worth much more, to live differently, to love otherwise. Here
life, the material burning. I dare not smother. I still fall asleep in the dark glow of my love, pain and nights of absence, they will succeed tomorrow
a dawn smiling, she will face a tender poison.
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