Je veux écrire mais j'ai perdu ma voix... encore...

"...Et ce n'était pas bon, mais parce que c'était en cachette, et que tu te punissais d'écrire, que tu n'allais pas jusqu'au bout : ou qu'écrivant, irrésistiblement, comme nous nous masturbions en cachette, c'était non pas pour aller plus loin, mais pour atténuer un peu la tension, juste assez pour que le trop cesse de tourmenter. Et puis dès qu'on a joui, on se dépéche de se culpabiliser - pour se faire pardonner ; ou d'oublier, d'enterrer, jusqu'à la prochaine..."
-- Le Rire de la Méduse, Hélène Cixous

Too much feministe theory can really get to your head... I want to write but I have lost my voice. Once again. I want to blame this cold on you and say that you stole it, you stole it all away from me, all that I held so dear, all that I treasured without reservation, all that I trusted without suspicion, you changed all of that. Once upon a time, they were my friends; this world of words, this world of ambiguity and sense and nonsense and flexibility and interpretation. Suddenly they became unfamiliar, they lied, they changed, they were dishonest and untrustworthy, suddenly I didn't understand anymore.
I need a new concept.
Maybe this whole world is based on persuasion. All power struggles and society formed by who is the most persuasive for the moment. You were persuaded by your words, by my words, by a lack, by an immense overwhelming overflowing something that you were persuaded was what you wanted it to be, was what I wanted it to be, and in the course of all that persuasion, I wanted to be persuaded too, I found evidence, all this proof, all these messages to tell me what I wanted to know, to give me exactly what I lacked, what I thought you lacked, what I persuaded myself would and could and was exactly what it seemed to be.
So now I need to persuade myself of something else.
I spent one night travelling through words to find a happiness that I had forgotten, to get out of myself and all this preoccupation with me, me, ME, and found instead something else and somebody else and some other world and for a very little while it felt really good, to have realised that I had fallen back into an adolescent depression and managed to find my way out of it before it was too late.
I spent the next day thinking of you and yet not unhappy in the company of a lovely new friend, a truly peaceful and tranquil and calm soul, and mysterious in all the right ways to make me fall in love again. I suspect beauty, also, lies beneath her prettiness but I do not know yet.
It's nice to be able to be quiet and happy at the same time.

The next morning I dreamt of everyone back at home:
A tragedy that I could see happen before it happened right before my horrified eyes.
A crashing that was too much for my delicate, weak, sensitive heart.
I ran around frantically making sure that everyone was ok, that I hadn't watched helplessly as everyone I loved got hurt,
and that you were alright...
but I couldn't find you...
The damage seemed minimal, but you were still missing.
I couldn't break down in front of everyone because I was ashamed of my inability to remain calm, to not let my emotions get in the way, I was ashamed that I felt it so strongly, this love, this wanting that no one ever got hurt, I was ashamed that I couldn't help crying...
I ran away and into his arms because he was the first warm voice I heard
and into his smile I cried.
Then you appeared.
I pushed him away, this love that couldn't console me,
and wrapped my arms around you. More tears and more senseless repetition, reassuring myself that you were ok...
Then I remembered...
that I no longer had that right to be that close to you like I was, to hold you like I was doing, to cry for you like I was crying, to care about you like I did, and I pulled myself together,
away,
apologising...
ashamed...

Tu peux t'occuper de tous sauf de moi; mais moi, je ne peux que penser à toi...
Comment t'echapper?