“I hate Sunday. There is a strange melancholy that settles in the body after eating and takes root downhill, until it catches on the soul and extracts the joy from you ». This is how my entry into this diary began fourteen days ago. Today I have realized, with great regret, that there may still be a greater unease, that there are sub-basements in despair of extreme stillness. I count the time on buses, which pass empty, every exact nineteen minutes.
I read to Miguel Hernández: «A hard slap, an icy blow / an invisible and homicidal ax / a brutal push has knocked you down / I walk on stubble from the dead / and without anyone’s warmth and without consolation / I go from my heart to my affairs» . Except that I have no business to address, nor does my heart reach out, prisoner under this heavy and wet blanket of melancholy. Suddenly the silence is broken by the applause that seemed empty to me yesterday. I close my eyes, open the windows, thirsty for the noise. How confusing and contradictory, how fragile I feel. .