1400 people at the Montreal Traffic Club’s Lobster party tonight. That’s alot of toupees and cheap suits. That’s my world. That’s people I’ve worked for/with/against for ten years. That’s also alot of eyes on me. For the first time. In a long time. Eyes like hands. Eating. Drinking from my fountain. And I gave free refills. Cleavage, tight black pants, heels, leather coat. My hair like an aura. Eyes trying to see through mine. Smiles hard to contain. Both sides.

-They look at you like you’re a piece of meat!
-And?…

-My God, you look FAN-TAS-TIC!
-Why, thank you!

-Wow, the older you get, the better you look!
-Oh, that’s so kind, thank you!

-Hey! You lost weight! You look amazing!
-Thank you! Yes, 30 pounds!

-Swan, you are beautiful tonight, wow!
-Thanks Ex-Boss!

-Haven’t we met before? Don’t I know you? Oh, wow, I can’t believe it’s you!
-Awww, come on! (keep it coming)

Level 1 000 568 on the ego scale.

Home. I’m invisible. No hands. Crash. Back to square one.

Je suis là. Mais j’observe.

Je suis là, je suis là, je suis là.

Mais.

J’observe.

Ce n’est pas possible
Autant se retirer
Autant tourner le dos

Le mal de ne plus voir
Fait plus peur que l’improbable
Le n’arrivera plus

Le passé sculpté dans ma peau
Le passé caché sous mon lit

Il est là. Mais il observe.

It seems like I’ll never be what I wish I was. What I know I can be actually. Cause it’s right there, I feel the two (three, four?) trying to become one. The change could be emminent. If only I could let it happen. I try. In the silence of words written to be told.

Let’s use another word. Change is worth shit. Become? Evolve? Ah fuck… I got it. Mature. No, no, no, does it have to be that one? It means way too much. Aren’t I done with this? I don’t want to be mature. About anything. It shows the way to so many things I know I do wrong. That I enjoy doing wrong.

It’s not about responsability. I’ve been responsible all my damn life. It’s about me and the others. So many blogs I read, so many people saying they are not a people’s person, they are not sociable, they actually hate people. And I can totally identify. But at some point, doesn’t it affect my whole way of being, my ability to mature, to be part of life?

Nothing relates to me in the outside world. I can’t relate to anything or anyone. Yet here everything is about me. And it’s so easy to believe that this is the truth. I mean every word I write, yet I can’t communicate my needs out loud. I can verbalize my anger, my despair, my insecurities, yet I can’t bow my head and cry in my living room.

There was a time when I didn’t exist. When all I could do to survive was to come here and write. Because I was the ghost of someone wanting to be. Now I’m too big, too real. And I’m getting smaller and smaller as each day passes. I know what I have to do. I know what my words mean. Each and everyone of them. I love them, embrace them, make love to them. I have to let them back in.

Mon regret plus rapide que son ombre
Au flanc d’une montagne d’attente
Je regarde en haut
J’en peux plus de courir
J’me laisse rattraper

Quand ça brûle dans mes poumons
Quand le feu prend entre mes seins
Quand mon corps est un ange de flammes
Quand l’air disparait, se sauve, m’échappe
Ça ne fait plus mal

C’est quand je reprend mon souffle
Et commence à monter
Gravir la pente vide, la pente totale
Que je sais tout
Que je sais tout

Isn’t that the coolest site ever???

The night air is cool and I want to cry. My skin calls the shiver of a kiss, the warmth of my hips in your hands. I would. Anything.

Erotica makes my throat close and my eyes burn. The characters hate me. Hurt me.

Ripple through me in waves I’d rather not know existed.

Love stories don’t do anything for me. I couldn’t care less about their endless embrace under the stars. But when they take off their clothes in haste, to feel… I cry.

I cry the wet grass on my back. I cry the echo of my gasp of your whisper. I cry the leaves in my hair.

Twenty fingers locked.