Very intimate diaries 19

My inner core is wearing out with these crazy fires of madnesses, these floods of sadness, these thunderstorms of pain and those storms of suffering.

Nevertheless, it still holds. Whatever the width, height or size, my pillar is indestructible. It’s what keeps me on the march, running; to live.

My pivot is blind; he obeys to what causes the shakes, what wants to uproot the soil where it’s sticked, deeply in my heart.

It's my radar that detects the slightest movement of my being and trying to keep my inner balance.

This center, this central stalk is unique. Some have a manufacturing defect, but all are functional.

Some say that we ourselves had already ordered our copy before using it ... Others say that these robust axes are drawn randomly as a lottery where there is only one winner.

Some are born to lead their pillar to perfection; others will not have enough of one life ...

My core braved many inland storms, but his fate remains unchanged as a lighthouse well planted in the rock. It will self-destruct when death will pick it up as a ghost ship that arise from the fog of life.

This n' that 5

When I took the train to leave my little town for my studies, I was torn apart between this new freedom to discover the world and the well-being and love I felt in my home town with my family and friends. A huge sadness occurred and I had an intense feeling of uprooting, which continues even today. 

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When my father died, I felt a tremendous relief.
Then, the regrets and the guilt fell on me like a ton of bricks.

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On my gravestone: he was loved…

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I am amazed how easy it is for me to guess, to feel others.

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I’m constantly in need to prove that I have the right to say, to think, to write.

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“Don’t forget that the others also live a fight; they’re warriors who look for resting.”

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My concentration: I’m here, I’m not here, I’m here, I’m not here, etc.

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Don’t be afraid anymore to say:
"I want to finish what I was saying..."

"Give me still a minute or two…"

"Just wait a little until I finish…"

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A staircase is built from the bottom up, but it’s swept from top to bottom.

This n' that

What's the strangest about this "re-conquest," it's that I change while being the same.

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At first, the person whom I made responsible for my blocking was my father. 

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Younger, I dreamed to be a professor or an archaeologist, and somebody important.

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I think that my creativity is the source of my soul.

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When I was a child, my father thought that my art, my creativity were useless. It triggered in me a feeling of anger. 

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I remember when he said to me, towards the end of my adolescence, that I would never be able to make a living as a artist. I felt very sad and angry. I have never forgotten this moment. (Ironically, this recollection is more and more vague today...)

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When I was a child, my mother taught me that dreams were impracticable. I remember that she always told me to snap out of it for my own good.