The question of the day is that of knowing who still has his own head.

Surely not the poor little robotic boy who was sent to decapitate the conscientious geography teacher. Sent, since the choice of the target, national education, came from a strategic plan, considering the think tank that was being deployed. The latter, by extending this with the decapitation of the faithful from a church, from Nice moreover: it was intended to separate us from our knowledge that, and those who want to fight against separatism are wary of being interpreted as if it were a question of a decapitation.

This is the advice given by Mr Erdogan to the French president whom he accused of dementia, but was his own in the right place, although his trick in condemning the attack against religion and exempting that against the freedom of thought, would lead us to think that some neurones were still functional.

Can the editors of Charlie Hebdo say as much by publishing a drawing that says something like, “the prophet, my a…”? Their profession is certainly that of challenging any imperative that is not that of pleasure, through the means of graphics that are quite phall, in other words that they have not lowered themselves to putting their organ on the block, which is what they’re being reproached for.

But all of this comes in a social context where everyone who wants to have his or her own head recognised (the practice of the selfie), is no longer recognised as being able to authenticate them, such that they themselves are beheaded beings who, for want of a referent, walk the streets today.

And what about me, have I the least guarantee of distinguishing myself (dangerously) by having held onto mine, holding onto it from the Great Scatterbrain who governs us from the Other, except if I consider that in letting myself be inspired — to expire by this Soft Head, that the guarantee of my entire responsibility comes from my pen, no alibi as we could say at home.