This is a little something I wrote one late night some time ago and that I just found again, just wanted to share it with you. Enjoy!
Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,
Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,
II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!
Quoiqu’il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,
Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris
Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde;
C’est l’Ennui! L’oeil chargé d’un pleur involontaire,
II rêve d’échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
— Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère!
— Charles Baudelaire
It’s a little past three in the morning here in France but I am still up, listening to music and procrastinating in front of my computer, and it is during these hours, when the world is as silent as death, that I feel the most inspired. Why is that? Perhaps it is the night surrounding me or the feeling that I’m alone on this earth, I don’t know, but it’s a mix of melancholy and happiness, excitation and fatigue. It is a very strange state of mind that makes you think about things that you wouldn’t think about in usual situations. It has the same effect as the shower or going to the restroom: one develops a philosophical spirit in these situations for some strange and unknown reasons. I tend to think it’s because in these moments we feel freed, for a few minutes, of all the problems and thoughts trapped in our heads and we allow ourselves to think about other things, to see the world differently. Maybe it is also because we are bored during these moments and we try to feed our minds with complicated questions.
In these times I think about things like the fate of the universe, the reason of our existence and sometimes it frightens me as I try to imagine what the world will be after I have passed away, after I am not part of it anymore. It scares me to think that one day I will cease to exist and that I won’t even be conscious to know that I have ceased to exist. I fear boredom. Not boredom in the usual sense, Boredom, with a capital B, as Baudelaire describes it. Boredom that waits patiently for you, the Boredom that fills your life and that you try to forget by distracting your mind off of it. It scares me a lot. But as I think about it I can’t help but put things into perspective and tell myself that I still have a long life to live and many things to do.
I think about my stories, those I have finished (the one actually), those I’m writing and those I might write. I dream to become a great writer, to publish my stories for thousands of people to read, but I know I still have work to do. Sometime I even dream to become a poet, like Charles Baudelaire. I don’t know if you, dear reader, have heard of him, but to my mind he is one of the greatest french poets of all time. I can’t stop from admiring the quality and the complexity of his work, every time you read his poems there is new content to be found. Unfortunately he wasn’t recognized as such until long after his death and that angers me a bit because he had real talent. Sadly not every great artist, or great man in general, is recognized in his time.
Don’t ask me why I’m writing this, I have no idea, I just felt like rambling a little and telling people about Baudelaire a bit, to get you to know him. I also wanted to talk about how I feel linked to his writings sometimes, he is one of the rare poets that I enjoy reading, even if his writings are not the most joyous ones. And he also symbolizes the quality of work that I want to reach with my stories and that I hope to achieve one day. It’s time for me to go to sleep but I still don’t wish to go, I want to stay up and write all night, I want to work with this feeling as long as I can, but I know that it’s not possible and soon day will rise and I will lose this sensation. I can only hope that, as tomorrow is a new day, it will also be a new night.