A ill wind is bringing me down these days. It’s a real ill one, since I’ve been coughing for days and still not able to leave the apartment or do something different than lay down with books, tea and cats. And a wicked one, ‘cause I’m pretty scared about following it. It’s not pushing me far away, just a few kilometers far from my beloved apartment next to Père Lachaise towards a bigger cozy house. It is not as strong as it used to. It is no more able to push me until another country, to make me eager about crossing the ocean, or even crossing the street. To make me hope for unknown and surprises.
“Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.” Sylvia Plath wrote these lines in her diaries. She used to feel still and empty, as the eye of a tornado “moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo”. This ill tornado is just leaving myself in the arms of someone else, ready to be shaped by someone else’s plans, since following mine has become that difficult and I’m just looking for simplicity and easiness.
This ill wind is messing with my wish-lists and dreams and I’m desperately fighting in order to spare something from this silent hurricane. But still. I’ve finally discovered myself just longing for this safe nothing. Anxious about trying on different lives, like different dresses, just to put them in a closet once again. As Sylvia Plath would do. Just willing “to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.”
Soundtrack: Ella Fitzgerald, Ill Wind