chrysalis disorder

You have to keep a little diary of everything that is going to end now. I was all week at the orals at Centrale Paris. From Wednesday, the heat began to be extremely heavy. My eyes squinted more than usual outside, the air to breathe was warm, no cloud, no wind.

I have had difficulty sleeping for two nights. On the one hand, the heat that persists at night (even the window open), therefore the lack of fresh and renewed air (as if it were stagnating in the room), until I decided to leave the door of my room opened to create a current of air, there it improved. On the other hand, I relive my oral French from Mines mentally, imagining a different ending, a different answer: defending myself better, or an example that the examiner would like more… but it’s bothering me. The past must get out of my mind. I still hesitate to call to find out if it is authorized to ask a candidate his opinion on abortion, and on what we think of the ideal role of the father. Does that still make sense? I still don’t understand what she was waiting for here.

I’m on the train, I’m sure I’ll fall asleep, the air is cool here. My eyes are so tired. My sight has gone down. Accumulated fatigue. Waiting, incomprehension, doubts, need for a free spirit. Who rediscovers the meaning of prayer, studies, leisure. The meaning of success. Too much brainwashing, a little confused about the evaluations, the coldness of some and the humanity of others.

I have pain in my right ear too. It wakes me up at night, and I don’t feel like the painkillers are working. Almost no sleep that night. The mattress has been on the floor since Monday evening, their box spring was made of elastic iron and a wooden plank, too high off the ground for my taste. I think my back didn’t like it.

I dreamed of traveling, I don’t even know how to do it anymore, or where I would like to go.

Sleep, fruit, sleep, fruit.

A beautiful nature by the window; plains, trees marching under the same landscape, the same line.

It is the story of a young chrysalis, wrapped in a silver boat. She is wrapped in a white cloth, is curled up and has her eyes closed, waiting for the boat to be pushed on the Ocean River.

In its cocoon, all is silence and murmurs of waves; promises of birth, of travel, of liberation from its vestal covering.

The world around her is black, so she waits, in her silver shelter, to be pushed where the moving waters will take her.

She has an impression that often comes back to her. These days, it is chosen as a melting pot of answers by some people, or as a receptacle for sharing ideas and knowledge. She can listen to someone in the eye, perhaps make the other feel her interest, her attention.

She dreams of being able to make people feel loved, cherished, and important, with just one look, one encouragement, one question. Even strangers.

He will have to accept that some people refuse such a gift, and therefore will not benefit from it.

But by praying for her friends, the people she has just met, she can open many hearts, and understand how to address them, while placing her doubts and fears in the hands of the Lord.

July 4, 2015

Text written at the end of a 5/2 ~ third year of scientific preparatory class