Où es-tu, et où suis-je ?
When there is nothing I can’t, I can’t when there is nothing. Have I told you before? I talk to you, and to myself, I always talk to you. I read Miller and then Beckett – neither fits; maybe Beckett a little more. My mother cries, when there is silence. I do not cry, but sometimes I force myself, because the silence is worse than the crying. Way worse, there’s no comparing. I keep trying to find a voice and I think I do not have one. I read Beckett and I read Miller – and then some – neither fits, nothing does. I imitate and sometimes I think there isn’t anything more except maybe a filter, slim and weak, thin and weak, with a texture like a crying infant. So I wail a little literature but it isn’t much, and it’s not enough when there’s nothing, when there is nothing at all it’s not enough. I lie about sadness – or make myself sad – or lie about in sadness – they all seem fairly similar. I never felt, I never felt at all; but I think about feeling because I must, because I am not well, or rather because I am not at all. I can see myself and I am not at all. I read Miller and Beckett, I read a little bit of each and then I craned my neck and I moved my fingers and I did something, or thought I did, so I could feel like I thought I did, or think I felt like I thought I did. I am very confused, you see, and I find that a little funny but to tell you the truth, I am not convinced I have laughed at all ever. Not at all ever. I tell you I am not well. I am not, perhaps, but not because I feel, rather because I don’t: I am unwell because I would like to feel sadness. That makes me really, very sad. Sometimes I think I see myself walking and sometimes I think I am stuck within these legs, but I think I am somewhere in between. Beckett is somewhere in a cloud. Miller is really, very much in his legs, he even flings them about like madness. I would like to fling my legs but I do not know that it would be honest, nor that I would have the energy, because there is no energy without honesty, it seems, and for that reason perhaps I look really very dead, good as buried. I am not in a cloud and I am not in my legs. I am somewhere there, in between, where there is nothing, only a resounding silence and only that, and when the words come in I focus on them, hard, but the silence seeps in, it seeps quicker the more I focus. The silence is violent. You could say the silence is death but I am not being metaphorical. The silence isn’t birth either. The silence is a texture that hurts, that hurts very much, and it hurts very much because it doesn’t hurt, because it isn’t there and because I want it to be, because I would so like to talk about it, about something, but because there isn’t very much at all. I am here between the cloud and the leg.
Où es-tu, et où suis-je ?
