WAITING WITH BECKETT

Something with the scent of morning coffee... my thoughts rising with the steam...

WAITING WITH BECKETT

Silence in the midst of noise —       

From my sketchbook - Angoulême, 2025

Here we are again… The world feels like a big picture without words, or words without a picture. There are no real tears left, just that invisible heaviness pressing on the chest. Hugs are rare, and quiet mornings even quieter. Who still dreams dreams? Do we listen to music, or just let it rustle somewhere in the background? Do we still watch the sun, or has it, too, become distant, cold? Madness rules again, and the world repeats like an old, scratched record.

The small things have disappeared. Around us are only giant eyes devouring the details: a vase of flowers, a trinket on the shelf, a sheet in the wind, morning clouds... Memories of childhood, of those afternoons watching the rain and feeling like we were traveling, are now just a murmur in the distance. Instead, all around us — fear, restlessness, false needs.

People are tired. Deflated. As if we’re slowly being erased. Where are we headed? How much strength will it take to pull ourselves out of a life without direction? How do we create something that truly helps? We don’t know. So we wait. And that’s where Beckett comes in — maybe waiting is really the only answer. Waiting without desire, without rush. Waiting without a goal.

Because we don’t need much... Just a good sleep. A blanket when it gets cold. And that blanket — it’s not just a blanket. It’s bread, and wine, and cake, and a little bit of light. Something to help us wait peacefully for better days. Or at least — to wait in peace. Until the next waiting.