It's all about perception. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Three days. Three days that we live differently from each other. There is our own sensitivity and this common point: We do not know exactly how to anticipate our future. I, you, we write it in dotted line. So we wonder, imagine and torture ourselves. In the queue, the queries wait, one after the other, for their fate to be settled. The problem occurs when they create a brain traffic jam. It is at this point of rupture that one ends up in a shrink; to put order in a mind that is drifting away. Off the coast. It's a vast open sea, you get lost in it. Sometimes we meet there.
In this story, the psychologist is a reference point. She's here or not. Maybe it's a friend, a mere sight of the mind. Is the chair empty or is it used as a padded seat? Just the need to talk, to be listened to. Failing to be read.
Which direction do you want to take?
Can you refine your question? I don't want to seem to move, but I feel it's incomplete. Please make an effort to make yourself understood. I've had enough of the questions that litter my skull. From top to bottom, from left to right, they are billiards. That's why I'm here. I answer to yours and what do I get from you? A mixture of synapses and a pot au feu of neurons.
What direction do you want to take in your life?
Thank you very much. Thank you for that clarification. You see when you put yours in, it works better. You and I can get along. To create an unambiguous, disinterested link; financed.
She wants to know where I'm headed. At a moment T, if I am at a point A, what is the point B towards which I tend. To indicate a direction implies mastering the cardinal points. I've always confused my North with your South. Besides, you need a compass to find your way around, otherwise how else would the Titanic have sailed? Shit... Actually, I quit orientation racing in junior high school. And right now, I don't feel like I'm in motion. Here, sitting in his chair. I'm stagnating. But in my head I'm walking. My grandfather trusted the constellations:"Follow the shepherd's star, she row the flock to the sheepfold". He had Pif. One night, chasing her too hard, he fell into a crevasse. The nose ran away from him. My father would put his grain of salt in it:"Pursue your way as a Tunisian drives his taxi, to the feeling. They always end up coming. Certainly, in what condition?
She asked her question in a monotonous voice. Flat. A quiet one to make a mute man feel guilty trying to pull out a sound. His fresh voice from the beginning is similar to that of a menopausal droid. I mean, in a choir, there are distinct feminine voices: Soprano, Mezzo-Soprano, Alto. At their intonation, you can feel the emotion. Damn it, they're transmitting a thrill. He's tearing our hearts out. This moment when the eardrum hums like an Essaim that gathers in the ear. There, nothing.
In front of me in her chair, she crosses her legs and then straightens her legs. She's toughened up. His thigh; I'm talking about his thigh, of course. She contracts her quadriceps to bend it. The more I slump in this chair, the more massive it looks. My eyelid trembles when I panic. It jerks my vision around and prevents me from focusing on the directional lens. Like a series of slides with jerky tac tac tac tac tac tac. What an ocular marasmus! My eye is a trombinoscope. My mind a nightclub. I'm dancing with my shrink. Damn it, I'm slipping in that chair under the weight of his interrogating eye. I'm trying to keep my head out of the water. It doesn't work. I'm drinking the cup. Glutton.
I feel like a spectator of a play, played by this cheap actress. This session facilitator dictates the tempo. A blow I am calm, a blow I anguish you. And then, no matter how much I look around, looking at the chairs, they're empty. I'm his only audience. I'm the audience. I should have warned you. You can't go to a restaurant without a customer.
From his point of view, the situation seems trivial. No jitters or surprises. She saw this scene as the patients followed one another. She works them during the interrogation and guides them to the stabbing. It empties us, makes us feverish. I'm a product in his loser factory. In her own world, the question of the future is a trivial one, everyone answers it without eyebrows. What world does she live in?
A space made of sofas and armchairs. Sitting and lying people. Some ask questions and some answer them. But certainly not people running. Running after what? Over there, we rub our chin. Distinctive sign of the people who analyze. Even when it doesn't make sense. They have this movement of the forefinger and thumb, the crab claw, which digs a furrow between the lower lip and chin.
