4월 1일 월요일

                                                   (*These mostly are not my writing_these are Roland Barthes pieced together.)                     

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à la salle d'attente: anxiety mounts.

I think of a knee that doesn't move away, or an arm extended, as if quite naturally, along the back of sofa... in vain. I try to busy myself elsewhere but instead I end up realizing, to make someone wait is the constant prerogative of all power.

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I am mad to be in love, I am not mad to be able to say so, I double my image: insane in my own eyes (I know my delirium), simply unreasonable in the eyes of someone else, to whom I quite sanely describe my madness: conscious of this madness, sustaining a discourse upon it.

Rimbaud: "Je est un autre." (literary) madness is an experience of depersonalization. For me as an amorous subject, it is quite the contrary: it is becoming a subject, being unable to keep myself from doing so, which drives me mad. I am not someone else: that is what I realize with horror.

I am indefectibly myself, and it is in this that I am mad: I am mad because I consist.