The Curse of the Writer

Midnight… Trying to sleep with a blindfold on when sleep won't come is exhausting ! It's like rolling a large container filled with tiny bolts—thousands of them—inside, but without a sound. You shake this container overflowing with bolts, nuts, and nails, and yet there's still no sound. The deafening noise of silence, the thoughts swirling in your head as they fail to realize it's time to sleep : this is a kind of exhaustion and torture that even dictators or tyrants could never have imagined. The window of this room overlooks the street, a street that even the dogs and cats haven't yet managed to claim as their own. In their haste to flee, they use it only to pass through to other neighborhoods. And yet, the Moon, stubborn and fearless, casts a little of its light onto this street for the dogs, the cats, me, or for anyone who would appreciate its light or simply has nowhere else to rest their gaze—a gaze that cannot close because of the noise in their mind.