Writing fiction has a disadvantage, which is even a curse. Sometimes you feel unprepared to touch the immateriality all the words carry beyond their appearance, or their “dictionary condition”. There is always this risk: an interspace letting the words emerge, but yet hidden, as if feeling threatened by a misalignment or a misapprehension. A place few persons are allowed to enter. And then not even the most delicate gesture, not even the most precise synonym or connotation will be able to capture and hold any movement of that unknown portion a word may have inside, even if claiming for explosion (its signification, its abstraction, its perception). Connotation: the inferred overtone of a word rather than any limited literal use of its materiality. A tenuous limit between an intent and the very gesture of comprehension… to immediately express. This complex motion… The silence and the whisper. The whisper and the utterance. The availability and the unavailability to mean and be meant, to express and to be expressed. Therefore, and one more time, the words: with their signifier (le significant) and their signified (le signifié). Semiotics, nude and crude? No, definitely not. Not a linguistic cloistered environment leading you to understand and explain the words. But the difficulty a fictionist has sometimes to go silently into the realm of words, with no alarm clocks, no uncertainties, no indelicacy in holding them so much loosely or tightly in hands, to reach them in their profound expression of a delicate dance.
Today, I’m afraid that I had an encounter with my own deep-down truth as a supposed fictionist. What I am not, indeed. And then I felt misfit. Much more preponderantly: as if this path being a delusion. And then I felt lost.
I woke up in the early morning. Birds were coming over to my imaginary misguidance. They were supposed to come to say their morning hello by singing me a melody. A pleasant routine. But today they passed off my garden, didn’t stop for a subtle conversation with me. They just flied away. Didn’t even blow any secret to my ears, nor even to my heart. And then I felt gloomy. There was one of them, however, that lovely said to me, as if feeling the solitude of my absence: “We are always between an absolute realm pendent from expectation and a significance only in relation to something else”, which mirrors the unexpected, the collapse, the preclusion, and the intangibility of being nothing but incapable to be comprehended. These words are until titillating within me. Words, words, mere words… My insanity today discredited me to capture the connotation of these so beautiful words. And then I still feel disconcerted. At the very beginning, my birds’ absence carried myself again on to some vacancy. A cycle. Their crude yet wise words on to my misguidance. This one on to my inability to cope with such that silence. This one on to imaginary words carrying myself on to the truth I just figured out in my early morning: it is still titillating, still feels like I have missed the way to home. Where could you find the right words? How could you make your match on fiction?  
In the middle of the road there is a stone, there is a stone in the middle of the road, there is a stone, in the middle of the road there is a stone. You were right, Drummond. I also feel my fatigued retinas. That see nothing but the sad motion of my thoughts and the empty reason of my words. My fictionisms today feel so incapable to make me reach the words. These ones seem to be unachievable, intangible. Their motifs, verging on insanity or just on non-adjusted paths. And then I sincerely tend to feel like the rabbits had moved out and away from me.


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