[Ce texte en français]
I have never been so afraid never to be able to find silence again. I may seem calm, but this background noise which nobody appears to be noticing is terrorising me. It is not mean in itself, not particularly audible, but I can perceive it without interruption, and my nerves have an opening, a crack in them which cannot bear it — which is set on fire when the noise approaches (and it never goes away), as if the life of what the crack leads to depended on it. It is actually quite possible that it does depend on it. For the moment, the crack is still active enough that it is able to intercept the noise before it manages to slip through. But for how long?
There is nothing, either in my life or in the world on which it depends, that appears to help make the crack narrower, more difficult to get through. It is not "healing" itself, it does not have this ability, which would contradict its very nature. One could wonder about its origins, but basically such thoughts would lead to nothing. One could also attempt to describe and explain its phases, these periods when it appears to be transforming into a purulent wound, or those other periods when it gives the impression that it is scarring over — but, here again, one would end up with the observation that such a description would change nothing.
I hear, therefore I am sensitive. It is even impossible for me to conceive that there can be so many people who can hear without being the slightest bit perturbed by it, that there are people whose process of perception seems to always reach an end somewhere before the signal reaches the area of their actual sensitivity. (In fact, I wonder how they can actually feel when feeling is necessary.)
It might be television noise in the next room, it might be a fridge unit that comes on, it might be the wind that makes some construction items in the building vibrate in such and such a way, it might be the exhaust noise or engine noise from vehicles on the road in the neighbourhood (there is always a road in the neighbourhood).
If I were neurasthenic, I would say that this "background noise" (there is no background, everything is always in the fore) is driving me crazy. But I am not crazy, and this noise is not making any difference. It is only scaring me. It is causing an irrepressible kind of anguish, and no effort to resign myself to it seems to be able to smother it. I cannot resign myself to the noise any more than I can not hear it.
In the beginning, I mentioned the idea of the fear evolving, intensifying. In fact, I now realize that this is not the case at all — that this fear, however virulent it is, remains subdued, and that I have always feared the worst without being fully able to envision it. This is a fear that will never be resorbed, either by being in excess or by lacking. Why am I dwelling on this, then? Because this does not make it any more bearable. Because one should be able to conceive an unbearable state which has never nor will ever cease to be so. You may say that I seem to be able to bear it, to a certain extent, since I can talk about it, etc. If you think so, then you have no idea — and maybe this is mostly for you.
It is time to recognise the reality of the unbearable nature of things which are so. It is time to speak about pain with pain. It is time to rebel, not in order to remedy anything (since this cannot be remedied), but in order to create beauty out of it — in order to create beauty that does not change anything but changes everything. Beauty that brings relief to those who can be relieved. Beauty that seduces those who have no idea. Beauty to make those who cannot help it cry. Beauty that does not circumvent the necessity to state that it is useless — that it only ever manages to teach those who do not yet know about its origins how not to negate it — like that, for nothing.
There is neither nothing nor anything nor something in this. You have only understood what you could understand. There is nothing either clear or enigmatic in this. The text is flexible, it snaps on, and protects from nothing. It states that it is stating without being transparent. It sings a shallow song whose lyrics have the meaning of the music and whose music sinks. It is neither black nor grey nor white nor mirror. You tried to touch my cheek, but a siren rang from a distance and the sky was not set alight. The siren stopped, but I can now see small, cyclical flashes coming through the curtains, probably due to the reflection of the flashing light on some shop window with no shutters. There might be an altercation on the street, but it cannot be discerned from the voice of the reporter on the radio on the other side of the wall. When he starts talking about this altercation, another one will take place. The other neighbour will flush the toilet while the tub is filling up somewhere at the end of a pipe. There is a faint hiss on top of all this, but it could be the coffee machine that I forgot to turn off while I was thinking about the motor boats in the bay. I am always thinking about the motor boats in the bay. My sex life is suffering from it. You can't make a blind man without breaking eyes. The onomatopoeia would be a good rendition of the sound. All noises lead to beauty. I am sharing with you whatever I have left. It is not much, but it is more than nothing. Not that that counts for anything. At this point. He wants the people he is talking about. He wants the girls who are coming out naked and the boys who are touching themselves with pens. He wants the historic memorials for the dead of the revolution that was nipped in the bud. He wants the waters of the arrangement et bien d'autres encore. He buys himself a herd of asses brought together, aflame. It cannot match the virtues of absolute silence but it burns. When it burns, the noise intensifies. When it cools down, the noise decreases. I have already tried to describe the relative meaning of flows. Here is the digestive bleeding of an anus that blows up — and works.
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