We and I.
To separate them only you and him.
Yet the rift is deep.
Almost an abyss.
A crack that seems not to allow the presence of a bridge connecting the two strips of land.
That crack turns into a wall.
It becomes a house.
It becomes comfort.
It becomes tranquillity.
It becomes well-being
Well-being is a word I don’t like.
It’s a word that has been abused
Worn out.
However it’s a word that surrounds me.
It surrounds us.
It talks about me.
It Talks about us.
It tells how every idea, every belief, every impetus wavers and is readily corrupted in its name.
To take a step backwards.
To fade in a vague blur.
In the harmless.
In indifference.
I feel the rift become wider every day and become need, necessity, determination to defend the well-being referred to above.
The sense of guilt of those aware that their own well-being can only exist in contrast to those of others.
With a possible common well-being.
I allow myself to be enchanted by smoke and mirrors that glitter around me and which I cannot do without.
I live in a precarious balance between commitments, uncaring and sense of guilt.
A mirror has no pity.
Theatre must be a mirror.
With no pity.
I won’t forget that it’s impossible to live without pity.
Like looking at oneself in the mirror.
I won’t be indulgent.
It’s necessary to be strict.
To be hard, rigid, intransigent is inhuman.
I feel that everything around is always too human.
Human as far as meanness.
Reaching vulgarity.
Reaching squallor.
I feel that today the self often coincides with looking after one’s own backyard.
One’s own little puddle of golden pee.
I feel the inability to break away.
To stand out.
We are all similar monads.
Identical solitudes.
Isolated copies.
I look behind and see the value of difference.
Today it’s frightening.
The city, like the iceberg, has melted in the heat of the ultraviolet rays.
There are no more icebergs to go crashing into.
There is no danger of sinking.
We don’t have to hold out our arms to those who shout at our side.
We live inside reserves we have outlined with our pens.
I feel the desire to knock down the reserves in which I live.
That I have built for myself.
I’d like to break them down with words.
With my body.
With my arms,
With my nails, with my teeth.
With blood.
I don’t want to do it alone.
I don’t know how to do it alone.
I feel I need to do it.
We need this.