One of the things he wrote that I always remembered was this: (…) writes about emotions the way a political junkie talks about parliamentary procedure.

Through the years since then I’ve lived a whole lot more than I could’ve imagined. What I thought was the worst of times, in hindsight, might not have been that bad. Yet again, in a couple of years from now I might feel the same way about the last few ones.

Years. Cycles. It should be frightening to be talking in years and not in months, weeks, days. But as I emerge, as a human being, as a woman, from a multi layered and armored cocoon, I can see, accept, that things take time. And that we have to take it. Take the time to cry, to suffer, oh so much and when will it ever end? But also to screw up, to not give a fuck and to just say fuck it all, fuck all that fucking bullshit.

And in the midst of all this, I lost faith in my worth. Thinking about myself first, about my own happiness only made me feel guilty. It’s a long, very long, very hard battle. But I am closer to its end than to its beginning. I wish I could send thanks flying around to everyone involved, but if you don’t mind, I’ll thank myself first.

Lui: L’important, c’est d’être heureux.
Moi: J’ai de la difficulté avec ça, faire des choses qui me rendent heureuse.
Lui: Tu ne devrais pas, il faut prendre soin de ton bonheur.
Moi: Oui, mais je veux être certaine de la justesse de chacun des gestes que je pose pour ça. Il est trop facile de confondre le bonheur, la liberté, avec la fuite. Alors que l’on croit qu’on avance, lorsque l’on fuit on ne fait que tourner en rond!

And so it goes. Full circle? Not quite. But the past is not so far that I can’t see it’s ugly face. As I tread along, it will remain visible, but only as a reminder that I will not hang around his lot anymore.

there was a time when we could just tuck them away. the pictures.
forget about them, their colors, their scent, their laughs.
just stick them in plastic pages.
never look at them again.
easy to forget.

lies! memories are as vivid as a damp print.

I don’t want to click, don’t want to like anymore. I don’t want to play, to pretend, to go through, to please, to ease. to laugh when it’s appropriate, shut up when it’s expected.

today I’ll do it. that’s what I always say, today. and then I forget why.

I wanted more meaning, more structure
a form of some kind to help me heal
I was thinking, the pyramid kind
that always draws the eye
but I’m not that kind
of architect

I latch onto the good. to a point where everything else becomes invisible.

because I will never stop believing there is good in each of you.

Words we see, we read, and do not think twice about. Saved. The changes were saved.

Saved implies assimilated, accepted, approved of. Thought about. Considered and agreed upon. Saved. I can safely close this, as it is saved.

There are no more words worth saving.

Safely close this. Move on.

So, I was thinking, one of these days, yes. Then one of these days came and still nothing. I’m sitting here, sleep deprived, semi-drunk, heartbroken, lonely and desperately mute with the loudest loudest loudest fucking party in my head and I am NOT invited.

call the cops

If you didn’t care, what happened to me, and I didn’t care, for you, we would zigzag our way through the boredom and pain. Occasionally glancing up through the rain.

we. that. word. we. will be the end of me.

you know when the end comes, all they will say is, all she wanted was to be loved. by any means necessary. I was thinking that. no way, no fucking way. but all I can do is get angry at myself again and again. and it’s the easiest thing in the world.

I drive men mad. away. and so I was thinking that we business is just an excuse to get me some free abuse. once I wrote I wrote forty thousand words to explain why and how and yes it hurts but it’s ok because that’s all I deserve that’s all I’m good for. I’ll deny myself my bed, food, water, but do anything. any. thing. for we. and don’t you understand that that’s what you need too? can’t you see that. I’m just mad. insane. I was thinking I can’t say that so I’ll write it but. it’s all the same. my mind is gone along with the words.

all changes saved

iwasthinking
iwas
I think I was somewhere
went

I was going places I had dreams I had no we but a strong I and then I. went mad. that’s where. occasionally glancing up through the rain.

la réalité

ne m’oublie pas

alors résolument

je reste

sans toi.

Des fois j’aimerais vous parler du garçon qui répare son bécyk pas cassé en épiant sa voisine Carole, du bébé à moitié gelé que la caissière du IGA a trouvé dans un panier au bout du parking, ou du village où ça sent la moulée à chien quand il pleut. Ça serait peut-être plus facile, j’apparais pas sur aucune de ces photos.  Mais le portrait final, ouais, c’est moi. Grosse. Ou laide. Ou juste Swan. Elle fuck le chien un ti peu des fois Swan. Je croyais qu’on était qu’une elle et moi. Mais j’ai bien l’impression que je l’étouffe un peu trop depuis un bout. Et puis là, elle me donne de la marde voyez. Je sais pas trop où s’en va cette histoire. C’est pas un combat à finir. Plutôt comme une danse, où j’ai pris le lead un peu trop longtemps. J’ai pas vraiment envie de m’accrocher au rôle non plus. C’est correct. Je peux laisser aller.

Il y a eu une époque où elle faisait plus que leader. Elle dansait pour nous deux. Équilibre tsé. Ça ne peut se maintenir d’un côté ou de l’autre bien longtemps. La balance penche à nouveau, à nouveau, ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. Je t’aime Swan. T’es belle sur tes photos. Même quand tu souris pas. Même quand tu te fâches. Même quand t’as de la peine.

The time slowed down to a low, pulsing rhythm. It might have been The Stones. Or the wine. She kept on talking about death, and how it came about in her life. How it did not scare her anymore. Her hands flew in the air to emphasize, as it demanded, such a grand revelation. And while she talked, while she tried to convey all her beliefs in short bursts of words and silences, even though she wasn’t looking, she could see. She could feel his eyes, his understanding, his heart yearning for her love of life.

There is much to be said about the things we think we have to do, we think we need, and what actually needs to be done to be truly alive.

The wine had stained his lips and collected at the corners of his mouth. She imagined hers, tasting. Resting. Giving. His glasses were dirty and his eyes half closed and she wondered how come he could see so clearly. The night was almost over, and even though the proximity was choking her, they never ever let the distance leave them. The night was in fact over. No bridges crossed. No hands touched. A heart cried. The other, she’ll never know. Never again.

I don’t think anything could have been done differently. It just happened and then it never happened. Disappeared, like the wind blew it away while I left the door opened a little too long. And yet, it wasn’t my intent.

Like flames, like flames she threw herself at the possibilities. Like flames, they lived hard, fast and bright. All she had. And it burned.

Embers. I have to believe in embers. And my slow breath onto them.

Ça ne fait pas deux semaines et j’ai pourtant l’impression que ça fait des années. J’étais dans ma chambre, lumière tamisée, Dylan, encore Dylan, jouait pendant que mes doigts se faisaient aller sur le portable. Je ne pensais plus au départ depuis mon arrivée. J’étais tellement pas prête de la quitter…

En fait, je vivais une vie qui me semblait enfin réelle. Qui était mienne. L’air, l’eau, le bruit, le silence des soirées de semaine, les matins à peine engourdis, le Times, la vélocité.

Je ne suis pas faite pour être ici, dans cette vie, cette ville. À chaque voyage je reviens un peu plus déprimée. Mais qu’est-ce qui peut bien m’empêcher de vivre ce qui m’appelle si fort que les oreilles me bourdonnent à l’année, que je n’arrive même plus à me concentrer assez longtemps pour finir un chapitre, que la poitrine me sert à chaque matin quand l’alarme me projette dans le cauchemar de mon quotidien?

I’m obviously hanging onto something that wants to be let go.

Obviously. Cause my hands are bleeding mightily now.

Je me demande si mon éternel sentiment d’être à part, n’est pas finalement un message que j’ignore depuis trop longtemps. Je me perd dans une mer virtuelle où on s’applique à me mettre dans la face que je ne fitte pas là, ni là et encore moins ici. Aucun hashtag ne m’interpelle, et mes idées, mes intérêts sont au mieux ignorés, perdus dans la cacophonie des faux timides vaniteux avides de reconnaissance virtuelle. Les liens sont compliqués, les amitiés avortées, les messages sociaux véhiculés empreints de mercantilisme déguisé en originalité.

Il aura fallu que je me perde, solide, pour réaliser que ce que je suis, qui je suis, il n’y a que moi qui puisse le comprendre vraiment.