It cannot help but consider themselves to be a visionary. He wants to be the spokesman of the people, he has inside of him this desire, this unchanging wish, to be understood and accepted by his own. The wise, to get resource by making its crossing of the desert, he idealizes his word, the sage burn with desire to become this hand capable of lifting the opinions, to thwart the plans of what he called the powerful. He takes off for the most difficulties, he wants to restore this balance that never existed, he wants his Word animates crowds, upsets the consciences. All his dreams, his small personal utopia, there is in living. He wrote to forget, that inside, he does has no real meaning. He stubbornly refuses to believe in this doom what it portends. A mere observer in his little bubble. A sailor stranded on the island, this is what becomes the wise man of the 21st century. Like many, he’s a coward, who use words to escape her small reality. An agitator, being persuaded to have understood everything, and yet inaudible, uninteresting, bland. We cannot rely on the wisdom of men, in difficult times, because they bend to the prominent needs of society in distress. The threats, pressure, blackmail, are only a pretext to buy time. He is convinced to be able to control it at will, because his words will protect him from the evils of life. It is contemplating his glass of alcohol to the three quarter empty, this note just for having a great tour d’horizon on his reflection, and inherently, on the time he has left to live. In order to feed the illusion, he finally decides to fill it, to get the ship afloat, to be able to laugh at his disappointments.
He took up his pen, he expressed his rage, sadness, anger, that aren’t actually that a conspiracy of his mind. The role he created may according to him, change of fates. The pages fill up, the ink dries. The thoughts are emptied, he quickly sketched a clever smile, to be in solidarity with the writers with the symptom of the blank page. Criticism, hatred, muddy theory, conspiracy, paranoid delusions, manic speech. His words are as sharp as in his mind, he refuses to doubt, he can make this mistake. He won’t let anything fall, he held his thoughts, again, until the last words, until the inspiration runs. It claims to be able to understand this world who does more, he who wanders alone in his corner, he this hermit who thinks everything about life. Tears of resignation come him tickle the cheeks. What good? dream t – it. Am I not me also this insignificant little creature who spreads misery around him? indignant t – it.
No, he never did this life, he wanted to be happy, enjoy the virtues that nature gave him. Why? He who has known so successful, was persuaded her that was the peak of his fame to be a genius of modern times. Why? recovering doubt, still and always, he dreamed of being able to change his past, obsessed with its tiny mistakes along the way. Inside he knew, he could not feel happiness without having seen what look like the unknown of his intense and heavy reflection, it seemed so painful now, in this moment. He wanted to get rid of for good, his thoughts were swirling around this same unknown, he had him a cult following. A slight reflection came then upset him during a sweet second, his glass was still at quarter full.