To you, my dear friend
Woiler, March 9, 2023
Dearest,
For the last few days there has been no more public transport in France. I am stuck in my village. The people I meet are even more aggressive, polarized in a radical, senseless no or yes. More than ever, every encounter with another human being is a wall of misunderstanding against which I bump and hurt myself. I avoid people. I avoid people who shout and scream at such and such. I avoid people who would like everything to go on as before, while the ground slips away under their feet. I avoid cynics of all ages, and starting in adolescence. I avoid the powerful in their big indecent cars, with their weapons of mass destruction of reason, I avoid as much as I can the inhabitants of my village, most of whom would like everything to be killed around them except their village. Watch out! Build walls! Install cannons and guns! Shoot, shoot the bastards! They will replace us! Shoot them! Just shoot!
After a few days of feeling better - it was like seeing a light in the distance in the dull tunnel of my depression, a glimmer of hope, a jolt of joy - yesterday was again a dark day, of dejection, two heavy hands of fatigue dropping on my shoulders. I refused to let myself slip back into the sticky liquid of my malaise. It is not because I cannot take the train anymore, because my country is convulsing, that I have to lose my dignity. Finally, there is nothing wrong with being depressed, it is genuinely tragic to lose one's dignity.
My dear friend, tell me how you are, where you are, where you want to live.
With love,