A little piece of humankind

Last Wednesday, during the Einsturzende Neubauten concert, came to me a revelation about children and the motherhood which I may, or may not, experience.
I realised I was yearning to have, not a baby, but someone already formed, already experienced-marked, and our relationship would grow on that - maybe - crumbly ground, but which would suit me perfectly.
Why then bring something to the world, if I only place importance in what has been before me, away from me without knowing me, away from my influence?
So I am and so I shall remain. I own the so un-western opinion that only adults count, those who are already formed, and not of the vulgus pecus, no, sir; la crème, only.
Why did these ideas come during the concert, I have no idea.
It was a great moment of representation, spectators watching artists representing, and accepting their roles perfectly.
Where does the ability lie to communicate words written in several languages and interspersed with screams? What is the difference between music and noise? Maybe a little bit of humanity, and that is what made me think about the creation of a small piece of humankind that awaits the moulding of my hands to grow to its full potential…
Of course, you have seen the lie, the irony. I have still not had the opportunity to influence someone, and I do not believe that I am able to create something fully malleable. I believe that everyone is born with a very special sense of individuality that is almost to amend for fear of uneasiness, to restrain for fear of suicide.
I do not think I’m powerful enough to take on the responsibility for creating someone so different from me that I could love them, or so identical that it could not move forward.
In fact, my interest lies the notion that someone has been able to live so many years without knowing me and the fact that I would become part of their psyche as much as they are part of mine is simply stunning. This makes me think of fate, bringing me slowly towards something which I call “home”.
And then I die.
I was toying with that thought yesterday afternoon, my eyes fixed on the cobblestones of Gordon Street, my head pounding with a migraine so strong even a glass of Kro couldn’t beat it.

I thought about my depressions, the movements of life, sometimes positive, sometimes negative, and every time I thought I could say, "Okay, I will stop here, this is the last time that personality opens its eyes. " And I continued to survive, of course, and I have opened my eyes on a lot of beautiful things.
Yesterday I thought about the moment of my death, and that I will see it come, in the end, that I will be “bien vieille à la chandelle“, and that I will recognise this moment as the last one and that the end is imminent.
On that particular moment, will I remember everything that has happened to me? Will I carry the weight of my life after me? Life is long (relatively). Even if once the obstacles are overcome and the difficulties long gone by, every little memory counts, for it has been a moment of life, a movement towards the end.
The truth is that I should stop lying. I year for peace. But that stability once achieved, I know that I will not recognise it as the ultimate goal, as my own good even if not the highest I can reach, and I will want variety, everything and its opposite, once more.