MY BEST M A T E

You probably think I'm going to tell you about that long-time friend I sometimes think about, or about that young woman I met recently who I really liked and with whom I would have liked to spend a little more time, or maybe about the lady I've been living with for almost twenty years and who spoils me a lot.

None of this. I have only one companion , I call my mate and that is my writing.
She is always there for me. I confide in her. Besides, only she understands me.

I don't need to give her so many explanations. She rarely asks me unpleasant questions or reprimands me if I have failed here and there.
How can I not love her?

Yes, I often write because I like it. It is the case to say it, I empty myself by writing and by doing so, I feel better. She is the only one who enjoys what I write and sometimes she congratulates me for using this word, that phrase, that expression. We understand each other and we like that.
It is Democritus who said before me: "It is not worth living if one does not have a good friend" and well for me, my friend is the writing.

 

The world might laugh at me if I told them that my best companion is the writing. But what does it matter when it comes to my own life? And if I love it, what could be better? I have never been very demanding, being content with little and staying happy that way. It is indeed a pity that people always want more. It seems that we are rarely satisfied with what we have.

I guess life today is like that. We want more because the other has more than us. The other has succeeded by the sweat of his brow, as they say, but this one expects to be given everything, pre-cooked. This is the problem of our society.

A long time ago, I included among my praises writing. I said: I like to recall the words of an Auschwitz survivor, Paul Shaffer, who said that only writing can preserve the memory of the unspeakable and make the message echo beyond the lives of the witnesses. With their disappearance an invaluable source will be betrayed. He also said "What we are able to write remains far below what we are able to say".
And this is what Marco Polo would have said on his deathbed; "I have not written half of what I have seen.

These few notes do indeed add meaning and value and when I reread these words today, I still find them relevant.

And let's remember this small but true proverb: words fly away but writings remain.And to finish, a word from Voltaire: writing is the painting of the voice.