FACADE

Do you feel this long descent into hell coming? I didn't feel it either. Rub shoulders with the abyss every day, I looked elsewhere for a little light, as if to avoid the fatal and inevitable sinking.

And yet the outside world seemed even more austere to me. I was one of those children unable to integrate, prostrate tirelessly in a sickly fear of rejection. So I isolated myself, keeping in my mouth this bitter feeling of being too much. The words sounded wrong, it seemed to me that I could not meddle in this outer life, that I was a dissonant element in the face of this atmosphere far too lively. I stopped speaking, weighing every tiny syllable, hesitating with every movement, diverting every look. I observed this ambient life, analyzing each of its aspects, in silence. I spent such a long time not to mention that the sound of my own voice seemed foreign to me. I've watched others evolve, weave bonds. In silence. Persuaded to be a added piece, invisible, yet far too visible. I grew up with foot eighth, vile child tauts and mocking glances. And. and I kept quiet more. It takes time to realize his harassment. I realized mine so recently. It might seem unthinkable that these cruel and innocent acts of child are not justified. I thought I deserved this permanent rejection, this feeling of embarrassment. And yet he was not. I understand it now, without feeling any grudges. I thought I was the problem, and I doubly hated myself for it. I was the cause of everything and nothing at once. How can hatred be preferred to indifference? The two seemed to associate divinely, and from this association I kept only this perpetual fear of rejection. How do you find a place in a world that doesn't seem to want you?

I had this ball in my stomach on the way to school and on my way home. I was in a kind of perpetual apnea, clinging to the few things that seemed welcoming to me.

That's where my passion for books came. This adoration of beautiful phrases, from the resonant words to the depths of the soul. I dived into the books to hope to get out of the real world. I shared my sadness and my sorrows with beautiful words. I understood the character of Emma Bovarie, six years too early. Tears, and sometimes even blood, permeated the pages. I hid my blades in collections illustrating the spleen, and my sadness on some of Camus's pages. I liked some books more than some humans, and I used them as a bulwark against them. And yet it was no longer enough. My being became more and more impervious to words, to every literary sigh, to everything. My sick brain is no longer even able to concentrate on these lines, which have become wobbling before my dull eyes. And I can't even stand it.

With this passion for books came that of art. I understood that this vague thing that is drawing made me a little more bear the existence. So I filled sheets, notebooks and even canvases with uncertain scribbles. I have represented women's bodies, some of my attraction to them. I left a little of my mind wobbling, and even my daily life on these innocuous leaves. I drew my loved ones, my darkest words, my most beautiful joys. And I like to see those moments of my life locked in simple notebooks. Art has saved me for a long time. It always seemed to me to be the only thing to cling to, and those with all my strength. And yet art seems to be running away from me now. How can I rediscover the joy of drawing or painting? Everything seems bland, and my hands tremble in front of a white sheet. And part of me fears the only thing I can get a little recognition from. This fear of being only once again an abject and useless being. Knowing that one will never prevent the other.

It seems crazy to cling to something as uncertain as art, but what else clings firmly to such inner chaos? People are too uncertain to hold on to it sincerely, I understood it very quickly.