Itching

For a few weeks, my friend Consu has started putting her Art online. Maybe it has been longer than that, but I've only noticed it a few weeks ago. Her experiment wakes waves of longing in me. Itching for words, a pen in my hand, the sun in my face and that bloody Spring which just has decided to stay away. Today is a gray day, My son is playing in the living room, with his usual casual "I play all by myself and I love it" kind of way. He keeps saying, a litany of funny "Ça va pas la tête !" ("Are you crazy or what?" is the closest translation I come up with) and just made a train with two firetrucks which are putting out some fire somewhere.

I could write about my kids, they are growing so fast and are so beautiful. I could write about my not so great business adventures (a failure of my own doing, which I still need to process to make it not-so-failing), I could even write about writing (or not writing for that matter). I'm just not taking the time. And it's really about "taking the time", rather than "having the time". I've always said that reading, for example, is stolen time. I suppose writing time is exactly the same, stolen time. Time that you don't have. It's the "active" part of writing that I find so difficult. I need hours on end to come up with two sentences I like. And too many languages spoil the broth, as the saying goes. I'm always thinking of the audience and my audience (if I can call it that?) speaks too many languages. Even my son right now is stuck within two languages and switches, as he tells his firetruck story, between German and French (which, by the way, is simply fascinating).

I just wanted to break the silence. Wether it's for a minute or for a longer time, time will tell. Be good, take care.