Patrick Blanchon

Nobody knows

Where do the choices really lead? He asked himself the question by summarizing all the choices made during these last weeks and could appreciate the progress made. He found that he had shed several layers of old skin, and his now raw flesh ached painfully the slightest breeze. Even the song of a bird, however sweet it may have pierced his heart. Fortunately he had a clogged ear, he thought, the ordeal was at least halved.
Like an apneist, he had sunk down into the depths of the day, and could see, far, far away, something that looked like a familiar landscape. Had he dreamed? This landscape existed? He was going to doubt once again when he began to suffocate. It was the sign that he had to go back to the surface of things, to take a breath of lightness, which he still had too much tendency to consider as superficiality.
He had felt a deep disgust, a daily urge to vomit, remembering all that had to be gone through according to past choices, commitments made. In fact, all the projects he had in time put in place, eventually arriving, in dark waves like the tide stained by a disembodied supertanker.

And yet, despite everything, he was standing up. An unknown force kept him who did not have much to do with the will. It was through the pain, his only tympanum became familiar again with a voice buried deep within him. He found the deep beauty of silence.
He then wanted to seize a canvas and quickly catch his brushes to try to capture by color, movement, shapes all that silence inspired him because suddenly he realized that the silence was abundance, silence was inexhaustible, silence was the bed of a river in which his mind and body seemed to flourish and grow.
He had one last doubt, however, was not it still his imagination that played him a trick. And it was just then that the drone entered the studio. He followed his frantic trajectory and saw him hitting the beams, the walls of several walls before stubbornly crashing into the glass walls overlooking the courtyard. He hastened to open the door and after several more shocks against the windows, the insect found the gap of the outside and disappeared.
The painter closed the door behind him. And suddenly he understood. So he thanked life and silence by sketching a smile a little sad again. Then he went to work.