The songs of our lives are often not chosen by us. They're introduced in moments, like the unknown pedestrians in the photos. Ignoring the anniversary of the lockdown, when a song I didn't want to hear has given a slap in my pragmatism. I was being despised by a song full of words that I don't think: “What beautiful is going to be.”
"Sometimes there are no knives more rigorous than the memory of happiness."
Aware of the privileges that I accept to my watchtower, I have moved the rabbis, I have drawn the mines in the others, and in the confinement I was the sociocultural animator of my son, artisan of cardboard toys, cook, dependent, I thought I was able to fulfill my work commitments and I limited everything to an epic passage in my mind, smiling, flowery dresses, bedroom. Ready, closed.
The song has slipped through a Youtube curve, and I've been shocked by the first notes, the images, that look very old. And I can't stop crying. In my head, I see my two-year-old jumping in bed, yelling, "That, that!", "Don't take away!", in the middle of his 45-square-meter world, happy. Sometimes there is no knife more sharp than the memory of happiness.