Living in a community is all about following a rhythm that is imposed on us. The pace of work and productivity of a factory ends up impregnating the tempo with which we approach our daily lives. These injunctions of efficiency asserted like mantras come little by little to impregnate our unconscious in the manner of the sword coming out of the ember stuck between the hammer and the anvil. These statements, brought to the pinnacle, are not subject to any dispute on our part. We accept them without flinching like the sermons of our parish priest. Yet, are we all made for an accelerated life, rushed into the foggy sphere of efficiency? Is living well a matter of becoming a good soldier of productivity? Should we respond to these summonses like a frightened yes-man? Do we have a say? Can we propose our own melody and invite the world to dance with us?
The frenzy that can overtake us is in fact only a small part of human reality. The consumerist exaltation (the counterpart of productivism) has not yet reached all continents. The music played on the radio waves of an ultra-competitive world has not reached every home. The zeal and agitation of the passion for performance is only for some. Carelessness and a form of lightness still reign in some parts of the globe. The sweet notes that emanate from it manage to penetrate the air in such a way that its inhabitants sometimes glimpse a future made of singing mornings and bucolic walks.
To keep a form of innocence in such a way that it offers us the possibility to look at the universe differently than through the prism of pragmatism is a chance. They want to make us Stakhanovs when we could just as easily aspire to follow in the footsteps of Chekhov.
If the music is imposed on us, it is up to us to invent lyrics to make the song of our life our own.