Morning violence
Most of the time, they are just frivolous thoughts. The perfect sheet color to brighten the room, the silk scarf, the denim jacket. I'm waiting for my paycheck to place an order online. All this while listening to music, my only escape, and I float above the crowd pushing and shoving to get on the Tube. People sigh to stifle their cries.
I don't recognise myself anymore. I am nor the dreamy little girl who used to gaze up to chase the hot air balloons, nor the ambitious kid who knew everything, from beginning to end — the start of things, the direction, the meaning — nor the teenager who longed for the sea… I've lost everything. The apartment is filthy, and I drank too much last night. The only friends I have? I'm afraid of them because they might see that the cool girl I've become has a dagger plunged in her heart. The facade is no longer holding up.
As they come out the train, they queue up to get on the escalator. I don't understand. From a distance, they look like livestock, but an ambitious livestock, in a hurry. In the street, dawn paints the buildings pink; everything is pretty. It's spring. And a guy is kicking cardboard boxes while taking out the trash. It's not even seven in the morning. How do you get to the point of kicking things in the street when the day hasn't even started yet?
It always hurts. I tell people I found a job and everyone congratulates me: “That’s fantastic!” Yay, I’m part of the system. I can go to the bar and pay for my own beer. I talk about coaching, business, clothes, fitness. But once I’m home, sometimes, I swear I could cry. Every time, I wonder why I didn’t talk about the things that really interest me. Why didn’t I talk about painting? About this world I have teeming inside? About talking trees, music, and the sea. About the little characters that follow me everywhere in my imagination and always make me laugh. Why have I never dared to explain why I always lift up my nose when the wind blows? Why haven’t I shown the secret photos I take in the street that move me so deeply? Why have I never dared to admit to anyone that it kills me when people congratulate me on finding a job? I had a job… It was living. It was about making every minute I had been given an ode to the beauty of this world. I had a job: to convey that. To touch souls, to stir them from within. To awaken them to life. ‘It doesn't pay?’ I hear people say. Who said it was impossible? ‘What do you do for a living?’ I awaken souls.
Are they really my friends if I've never dared to tell them all this?
‘You're nothing but a coward’, I hear myself saying. A stillborn thing, hidden, all alone, curled up inside. I laugh when I talk about things that don't interest me, I learn to use what works, I apply it. And the worst part of it, is that it works. My complexion is fresh, I get compliments. ‘You've lost weight, that’s great! You look awesome.’ Inside, I'm dying, and I haven't told anyone.
I could have avoided all of this. All it would have taken was one honest answer, just one, for me to be proud of having found a job. All I would’ve had to say was ‘I'm figuring things out’ the day someone asked me what I did in life.
This child who dreamed of everything, tell me? She's the one who wants to write tonight. What did she do to make you whisper in her ear: You can't. Incapable. Time passes, it's already too late. There's nothing left to live for. There… Turn on the TV, go to sleep. Show yourself as you are? But look. Even you don't look at people in the eyes, so what is there to see? Nothing. And that's what you're worth, so don't hurt yourself. Have another cigarette, relax. Nobody's waiting for you tonight.
You don't find it in the street at seven in the morning. The violence is inside me. —
Read as well You know well it will be me, Journal (Vol. IV), Julien Green.
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