They're just words. 26 letters playing between them. I get tired of so many things, but I never play with them.
I like questions. The one that bothers, that leave in abeyance, the ones we apologize for asking to the people we have just met.
I like to ask these questions. I like to meet someone for the first time and ask questions. I like to read the answers in her eyes and attitudes as she works hard to heal these words. As she plays 26 letters between them, I look away.
I don't know how easy it was for you to write your last article.
I have no notion of ease or difficulty when I write. I'm just writing, that's all. I reach the state that illuminates me when I don't see the time passed. I listen to someone and read it to write it, or to write to me.
Because maybe you should do it more often.
I like annoying answers. Not because they are disturbing, but for the hidden truth evoked by the reaction. We live in a world so well built that getting out of it is the mission of a life. Authenticity is the mission of our lives.
I like people too. The ones I meet at random, the ones I've always loved, the ones I can ask all the questions to. I'm having fun discovering how many of them think they have answers. That's exactly what I'm having fun with.
Hell is always doing things that don't matter. It's living thinking about something else.
I believe that when I am not writing, exchanging or observing the other, I am living in hell. My artist's voice dares to tell you.
Many people write, few people write. Some people tell me it's brave. Yet I don't need any courage to write to myself. All my courage reveals itself to make me stand between two moments of writing. Time is so long when I don't write.
Maybe I should do it more often. Maybe I should do it all the time.
Today, and increasingly, the questions "What's your job?" and "What do you do for a living?" leave me here on the sidelines, nowhere. I feel so close when I have to answer that question. I don't like this question. She asks me a shower of existential questions that let me scream:
Is this world serious?
Are we serious about our jobs? Are we serious about our questions? Are we serious about answering them? Is this all serious?
If it were up to my artist's voice, to that part of me that lives in the next world, I would change my world for another. I would write loudly to tell you how it is, and I would invite all people to come and tell me about theirs.
I think I've been doing this for four years. I still think I'm gonna do that.
We are great artists of intensity.
That is what a colleague said to me several months ago and it stayed. What remains is never left to chance.
So that's what stayed. Artist of intensity, it spoke to me. My ego has sometimes saved me from radical and extremist decisions that the intensity of life makes me want to choose. Saved or killed, my paradoxical being will never answer it.
So I'm here, in the world next door.
I look over, outside my interior. I'm thinking about what I'm gonna have to provoke to get on the other side.
To be on the other side, not to surprise me with my singularities.
To make sure that all of you, people, can also visit your world, without being frightened by the person you would be, if you agreed to live next door.
Lovely. You seem like an interesting person and I hope we meet some day.