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When I Surrender
Words are written and music resonates
I’d like to write something tonight. I have some confidences I want to share with you. For example, I’d like to tell you how I drown my sorrows and anxieties in chocolate. Hazelnut praliné probably knows more about me than the two psychologists I’ve seen in my life. I confide in him several times a day these days. And every time it ends the same way: I give him death by ingestion. I never imagined that I could be so cruel to a poor cube of milk chocolate, and yet I am. I talk to him a lot about my dad, whom I lost when I was ten and who is still alive today. It wasn’t in his plan, and then one day in her forty-eighth year, a neurodegenerative disease came along and shattered his life and all his dreams in one fell swoop. Twenty-eight years later, he’s still here, but his faculties are leaving him, a little more every day. Like a tree shedding its leaves before eternal winter. My heart bleeds. Hazelnut Praliné also heard about my desire to move to the mountains, with the idea of starting a new life, with a new home, a new job, new activities, new friends, a love encounter, and lot of nature excursion. It would mean moving away from my parents, but it would also mean finally living for myself, just two years before my fortieth birthday. A Cornelian choice. So the days go by. My tears cover the chocolate and my smile runs over the faces of the charming young women in the store. Words are written, and I surrender to the last melody of Yann Tiersen.
