I’m so anxious that when I’m not, I’m anxious not to be. I can be as anxious for the apparent dilapidation of my fridge as for the future of my soul after my death. And if I worry about being anxious, it is to better appreciate this moment when partially delivered from my anxieties, I will imagine all kinds of reasons to feel anguish reborn in me. Thus is established a vicious circle that embellishes the anguished person in a kind of prison from which she would not go out for fear of not being able to return to her cell one day.
Anguished is not easy. A constant worry is gnawing him from the inside, his mind resembles a windmill that is constantly beaten by the winds and whose feathers would flutter in every direction to the point of flying away in the splendor of a hatched sky with a scorching rain. His heart does not beat, it beats so hard that it seems to shelter a monstrous creature, a demonic being who lives there as in a palace, so inflexible in his fits of anger that the slightest annoyance tears him from groans of pain that are soon followed by tears of spite.
“Do not ask him if he is happy”
The anguished does not know how to live. He goes in life, strangers to a world he does not understand. He wanders through life without protection, so fragile, so naked, so sensitive that everything demands superhuman efforts. He does not know the charm of the straight line, he must ceaselessly cross paths to reach his destination, and during all the time that will have lasted his journey, he will be lost so often that he has believed in each time his last hour arrived. Moreover, death has been in him for so long that it does not frighten him even more. It seems to him that he is already dead countless times and if he is reborn every time, it is in spite of himself, carried by this desire never satisfied to understand why among all the men, it was necessary that it is he to whom will always be denied the right to enjoy life unhindered.
Note that he would not change his condition for anything in the world. Besides, he does not seek to be complained or consoled. His wounds are secret, his pains broken, his pains mute. He does not have the grandiloquence of suffering, and as he seldom ventures, no one will ever notice the depth of his torments, the sequence of his thoughts which lead him to consider all things in their tragic aspect, the intensity his feelings that his ardor to live is as strong as his desire to flee far, far from the company of men.
Do not ask him if he is happy, he is not, he will never be happy and does not want to be. He is not unhappy so much so that where others believe him damned, he feels privileged: he seeks answers that do not exist, he questions the sky but the latter opposes him a fierce silence, he questions the men’s hearts, but now they are double locked; he is alone in the world and this loneliness is his greatest wealth, his only consolation, the most powerful remedy to this melancholy that has always been a long-time old friend of his, whose time is spent decrying the presence of others. praising him sincerely.
Anguished it is you, it is me, it is the human being in all its sublime magnificence, in all its superb insignificance and which, as long as it lives, will always seek to pierce the mysteries of a world of which he will never cease to exhaust all the beauties, all the spells.
