It is the own of worried minds. This inability to seize the present moment to always project itself into a distance whose vague outlines appear as troubles, haloed with a halo of anguish. This mismatch between a world that goes too fast, far too fast, is overflowing everywhere and this constant need for calm, solitude, peace. This aspiration to be out of the world and this desire to fight with him.
Oh, and those worries that never fade away. This perplexity to exist that constantly torments you and leaves you helpless, on the verge of asphyxiation. This particular way of always questioning without ever allowing a second of respite for fear of sinking into a facility of feelings that would have something vulgar or misleading. This life that hurts, strikes, wrinkles without knowing how to resist it, caught in the train of thoughts, all turned towards a lucidity that sometimes even prevents breathing.
It’s a curse and it’s a blessing. Without the itch of the soul, how life would seem dull and monotonous. How much we would be bored. How we would stay there, empty and sluggish, orphaned by this anguish that pushes us to go further in understanding the world, this desire for knowledge, this desire to know everything about everything in order to find meaning to all this excess that we surround and surround us.
It’s not a restful life. In fact, we have hardly finished any business, we have barely recovered the fruits of our labors, we have arrived safely that we already think of the trials ahead, the challenges to be met , pitfalls to avoid. There is no happiness for these beings, just a passing satisfaction which is soon replaced by a worry of never finding this desire to always sublimate, to always question, in a lost struggle of advance that yet obsesses us and keeps us alive.
This is not the misfortune, it is not the worries of everyday life, it is something else, a latent excitement, a perpetual questioning where dance the shadows of death, disease, misfortunes of destiny, whims by chance, of all this web of possibilities that seem to be promised to us as if we had to undergo the spells of a curse impossible to define or to apprehend and which, in spite of ourselves, we end up loving.
We do not know how to live differently. We try sometimes. We get drunk, we run away, we escape but it is to better meet. Nothing really soothes us, neither success, nor rewards, nor recognition, nor money, nor anything. We do not know how to live: we have lost the instructions. Cities attack us, the countryside annoys us. We dream of elsewhere that do not exist. We do not really understand others, they are foreign to us as if we lived in different worlds. We envy them. At home, everything seems self-evident, to be accomplished without effort. They are well in their skin, comfortable in society; they know neither doubt nor anguish, they go into life as if nothing could disturb their progress forward.
We can not help but admire them. Where do they draw their strength? They seem unshakeable. We, a simple comma, shoot us down. Yet without us, museums would be empty, libraries deserted, concert halls dumb … and psychiatric hospitals abandoned.
We are magnificent losers.
