Very intimate diaries  16

I am fasting energy to live. I gradually moved from a state of gluttony to a state of starvation. From a bulimia state of sufferings to an anorexia life state.

I was greedy; I’m learning to become gourmet.

I'm not on a diet; I’ve changed the way I nourish myself.

I’m learning to enjoy more slowly what Life offers me. Sometimes we make the menu together. And straight from my visceral garden.

This small piece of land I own, I'm the only one to know the way to reach there. My ground is so huge as my eyes can see infinity.

I learn day after day to plow, sow in this fertile land. It’s I alone who sows the seeds; those I found, those that were given to me and those I was offered.

I water my plowing with my inner well. And I need to fill it regularly with inspiration, imagination, creativity and ideas.

I always harvest the most eccentric fruits tastes, colors and shapes. They’re one and only. Some mature quickly, others remain green for long. When I harvest a fruit too early, it leaves me a metallic aftertaste that lasts a long time.

Season after season, fructifying this inner place that I inherited, I became a lonely market gardener.

But a more nature man.

Very intimate diaries  15

From the outside, I seem impervious to all negative creases that can reach me. Teflon. But in fact as soon as I get a negative slap, an alarm sounds in my mind and I rush to the speed of light, like a superhero, in this protective place that I have built in my head and I triple-lock the door.

But in the darkness of my mental prison I become gradually disoriented. Unbalanced.

This place where I came to escape the fear of suffering is the place where I sink all these fears in a huge sticky mud of aches tank. And pains that follow them. The drowning task is difficult and suffering. Very suffering.

I traded, in a pernicious barter, suffering for another.

I work for a few minutes. Or hours. Or days. My hands are covered with filthy mud as blood. I get exhausted and spread out on the floor. Curled up, I can’t speak, utter the slightest sound.

Yet like a rising tide of rotting carcasses, the tank disgorged mud that slides up to me. Slowly, the sludge covers my entire body. As this warm quilt my mother added in winter.

I become numb. I can’t breathe no more because of the mud I swallow on and on.

Then a small movement is born in me. It comes to life. It rebels.

Suddenly the way to get back appears to me more clearly. Like a crazed snake, I crawl out of this strangling vase and I take the way back.

I’m greeted by a dazzling light. Dazzling as it reflects off the iron bars that shine all around me. I realize that I’m in the same prison, but in a different cell.

Naked in my thoughts, I then take a long bath to erase all traces of this bloody mud.

Living for me remains a life sentence. I release myself with parole.