The fact that it’s Saturday, again Saturday, always Saturday, that it comes back without anything changing, that I get up without wanting to, without momentum, without even proper tiredness, the fact that I haven’t done anything I should have done, that I didn’t open the file, didn’t read yesterday’s text, didn’t fix anything, that everything slips away from the moment I wake up, that everything weighs on me without weight, that the Dibbouk is there, waiting, that I pretend to wait for it, that I hope it’ll speak for me, the fact that I cross out, that I go back, that I freeze, that I repeat, that every word slips through my hands, that everything is lukewarm, blurry, slow, and that I want it to move, to leave, to blow up, to tear itself away, that I type faster, that I drown the silence in lines, that I get lost in loops, in titles, in file names, in endless tags, the fact that I want to shake something in me, to get it out, to make it burst, but that nothing comes, that it stays there, stuck deep down, the fact that I try to write to escape what I’m writing, that I reread myself and everything puts me to sleep, that everything falls asleep with me, the fact that I think of other texts, of older ones, of the ones that changed nothing, that I search for a tone I’ve already worn out, that I repeat myself, that I pin myself inside my own sentences, that I go in circles, that I circle, that I circle again, that I feel this slowness like a threat, like a well, and that I run not to fall into it, the fact that it’s pointless, that it catches up with me, that I’m already in the well, in the hollow stomach of Saturday, in the short breath of everything I don’t do, that I struggle in sand, that I talk too much, that I think too much, that I think nothing, that I don’t think anymore, that I exhaust myself looking for an exit, a phrase, an image that might hold, the fact that nothing holds, that everything slips, that everything repeats, that Monday is approaching, that I’m already in Monday, in the soft dread of Monday, in the worn-out bottom of all my delays, that I’m still here, planted in this chair, that I’d like to get out of myself but that I’m me, that I’m here, again, again, again, that I’m alone in this inside without windows, that I’m trapped in everything I didn’t do, that I turn and I turn and I always fall back in the same spot, that I’m surrounded, surrounded from all sides, surrounded by myself, by everything I avoid, that I’m the echo of myself and that it doesn’t stop, that I don’t stop, that I don’t know how to stop myself anymore.
The fact that I stayed there, that I didn’t move, that I stayed in the same room, on the same chair, in the same sentence, that everything tightened around me, that I no longer knew how to get free, that the light didn’t change, that the screen stayed on without saying anything, that words kept spinning in circles in my mouth, that my throat tightened, that the inside became the only place, that I searched for air and found none, that every thought brought me straight to the next, that I couldn’t get out of myself, that nothing helped me escape, that I was caught in a soft net, in a lukewarm mass, in a float without beginning or end, that I stayed there waiting for a storm or a shock or a scream or a nothing, the fact that I emptied myself trying to run, that I wore myself out struggling against a weight without a name, that I collapsed without even falling, just sank a little deeper inside, that it quieted like that, not with peace but with extinction, and that little by little, breath returned, lower, longer, wider, that my hands came back, resting on the table, that my body remembered itself, that my legs felt their weight again, that sounds returned slowly, first the fridge, then a scrape against the window, then nothing, but a nothing that had presence, the fact that the ground rebuilt itself under my feet, not here but elsewhere, older, the fact that a field came back to me, a field of nothing, a field of always, with thick hedges, dogwood, brambles, nettles swollen with water, bright green, nearly shining, the fact that I could smell them without seeing them, that I walked through clover, that I was young, or old, or ageless, that I was there and nothing happened, that the sky was white, that it was hot, heavy, without drama, that cows lay at the far end, motionless, that flies flew low, slow, without aim, that the leaves didn’t move, that the wind had stopped looking, that I stood there for no reason, in wet grass, that the sounds were far off, muted, that the light had no direction, that I knew it would rain, but that it didn’t matter, the fact that the clouds swelled, that the sky stretched tight, that the day didn’t move, the fact that the rain finally came, wide, thick, without anger, that it fell on me like on everything else, that it washed me without insistence, that it cooled what it could, that the field began to breathe again, that the animals didn’t flinch, that everything simply stayed, just like that, exactly there, that I was inside it, that it had come back, the field, the calm, the grass, the water, the taste of sorrel, the weight of my arms, the silence after, and that it was exactly enough.