I’ve been anxiously waiting for vacations. It’s been so much this year that all I can think of is how good it’ll be when it ends. Tire has come to a point where nothing more matters, what you learn, the grades you get, the homework you do or not… it’s all routine, and there’s no true desire of learning anymore, because the whole year we’ve been stuffed up with informations we have a hard time swallowing. The french Bac is in a week, and somehow, strangely, I’m not even worried about it: what does it change if I do well or if I don’t? We have this impulsion of trying prove ourselves good, but what for?
I honestly don’t know wether I’m still supposed to write here or not, but this time, I have to admit that sometimes it feels good to write things down, put them out… it has a “cathartic” effect. This time it was possible, miraculously, to find some time to write here (and I’m almost falling asleep, so there’s a strong chance I’ll delete this post after I “consciously” read it).
When this happens, when I can stop and think about things, I close my eyes and see the most variated sorts of landscapes. The last time was in the car, on the way to school, I was half asleep… a green wide grass field, with smooth mountains in the horizons harldly visible, with a golden contour. It was the sunrise. And I ran, and ran, and I couldn’t get enough of it. I felt the fresh air in the face and the warm hug from the morning sun. I felt the absolute vacuum of my thoughts. I felt freedom.
Sometimes I wish I could chose not to think, not to do anything, to be a complete hermit, physically and psychologically, just for some minutes. Some call that meditation, my mind wouldn’t turn off. Montaigne chose to live isolated during years when he was fourty, and wrote all his thoughts. I can chose to live isolated (in my room), for a few hours. I guess it’s not enough time to write some “Essais” like he did, but it is to write a non-sense post in a blog.
I realized, while I was writing, how strongly my running to nowhere scene looked a lot like Rimbaud’s poem “L’Aube”, but I can’t remember what a saw first, the poem or the scene. Oh well, what does it matter anyway?
