It is true that I have not written in awhile. The reason is neither secret nor poetic. I simply have nothing to say. However, I tried. I sat many times before my blank and my pen (by the way ... Microsoft Word and keyboard but it is less pretty) in the hope that the words flow. But the words did not sink. Then I tried to look vaguely remembering a beautiful sentence Valery: "A real writer does not find his words. So he seeks. And it is better. "
I seek. I'm looking for a beating heart. Because the find, or better yet, find the "best," I declare, perhaps, by the strength of the thoughts of Valery, true writer. But I quickly finished my computer close by. And plunge into a sleep. This time ... real. Valery
But if those evenings I was sorry, Proust always came to comfort me. And then I slept with a smile of complicity between Marcel and my lack of creativity. Because Proust said: "It is our passions that outline our books, and the rest of the writing interval. I liked to I think living my passions. And count on the moments of rest and any future, that I did not want to rush to write black and white what the life of me exciting.
Yes, my absence could result in a trance. Trance face of life, animals and excessive laughter, discussions and five in my little London flat, dreams, uncertainties, fears, youth.
Because I found the passion in a sense much broader than the love of a person. Yes, I discovered a love of life. Through my friends.
This week was heavy, long and painful. But a glimmer at the bottom of tunnel gave me the energy needed to survive. And more. The chewable. This small spark
called Gaëlle. It's his birthday. And of course I gave him no choice. She was to spend the weekend with me in London. What we would do not matter. Since we would be together.
the menu? Nightclubs, pubs, walks and secrets. Sure. He had to catch all this time that we had separated.
arrived Friday. And with it the excitement of two days of happiness guaranteed.
Except that what we had neither foreseen nor considered also arrived. One of these shots supposed to make life stronger but we often make just tired and feverish.
Birthday Gaëlle had fallen into the water. And alone in my room I thought of this misfortune to be sick alone in a foreign country, in a cold city, without her mother, without her family doctor without hugs as effective - if not more-than antibiotics. My eyelids
end up falling fast. But in my head sounds a song, a song sung loudly by my friend the day before in the Italian restaurant on the corner, swinging his long hair and black by rapid movements of the head. Yes, this song resonates and me gives the strength to face my empty room. And my mouth will draw a smile as unobtrusive as stupid as the voice of Gaëlle already en route to Paris fills my night: "I do not need anyone on a Harley Davidson."
Yes, tomorrow morning we will win. And I will support the starter again. To again ... leave the land. ©
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