If I told you where I've been
Would you still call me baby?
And if I told you everything
Would you call me crazy?
I don't know when I stopped writing. When I stopped feeling the need to put words on feelings. I don't know why either.
I've been reading this blog back and damn, did I write some beautiful things in the past. Now I overthink it, I suffocate my words in unanswered questions and insuniations. I wonder who will read them, and who will understand. Who will see through them, who will overread them.
I used to be a free-writer. Let it flow, let it go. Now I hold back, words that are written cannot be undone. I used to like this idea, that each post here would be snow-globe moment, encapsulating a time and place. Now I look at my dusty shelves pilled up with broken bits of my heart, and bottled storms brewing bitterly, and I wonder was it really worth it, to keep it all around like that? Sure, in despair I wrote meaningful words, but now reading back it feels like my past was a long windy road paved with sadness.
I didn't think this through, I didn't think future me would be saddened by past me. I didn't think this would give such a gloom overview of my life.
Maybe I should change my approach to writing.
Maybe I should only write when I'm happy.
I can't write everything anymore.
Just when you though there wouldn’t be more, right?
I find it hard to believe I haven’t written on this blog in nearly eight months. Where did all this time go? How did I not feel the need to write?
I’ve been down a few times since January. I’ve been hit by new experiences, challenges, disappointments, doubts. I’ve stumbled and wondered. By all in all 2012 is looking good, half of it has been quite nice on me.
Funny how my conviction that I was meant to write was solely based on writing being my outlet for pain and unease. I thought it was meant to be. I thought writing was all I’d ever do, my only way of expressing myself. The only way to shine, and to excel at something.
But turns out that as I got better and more confident, my need to write grew smaller and smaller. Now I seldom write, and spend more time doing nothing than creating. Sometimes, I feel bad about it. Most times, I’m just enjoying to not be doing much. Who knew working could be so tiring? So tiring so that your days off feel well spent when spent doing nothing. I should work on that.
Become more active, more creative and more positive, all these “tives” that give a sense to an existence. Surely if I keep just doing nothing with my free time, I will leave nothing worth remembering behind.
Memories are more worthy then possessions. But memories fade, and get lost. I need to make them immortal. To preserve them, distilled in formalin, jarred on endless rows of shelves. Words can do that. Words can preserve, and encapsulate, and convey. Like a legacy that I can carry with me, and leave behind when I’m gone, so that whoever comes next can dig in the past if they want to. And bring back glimpses of my life, shadows of laughter and echoes of passers-by.
I need to start writing again. I forgot how much I enjoyed it.
Also, I want to make an elephant out of paper mâché.
In my story, it's only one road winding in a yellow wood. Step after step, together, until sometimes, this little pinch in my heart reminds me that everything is not that easy.
I am reminded that we're two in this, and who says two people says two opinions and two different views on things. Sometimes to paths diverging to merge back again?
I am reminded that the challenge of love is to walk on the same path, even when the paces are different. I am reminded that sometimes I need to slow down and be patient. And that sometimes you have to hurry and make that extra step.
Rare reader, hello, it's been a while. How are you?
I walk on a golden road, into peaceful woods. While my body is going forward, tonight my mind has been thrown back two years ago, into old times of uncertainity. I am not there myself, but I relive that feeling that I actually had forgotten. Long gone. And it only confirms my impression that in recent times I have taken us for granted. Taken us for a certainity, a truth that no one could counter or alter. No even ourselves.
And as per usual, Mr. So-much-wiser-then-he-thinks just put me back to my right place. In desperate lover land. Not voluntarily, I think. But as diner times always conveniently happen when we reach the heart of the matter, you never know. Too many coincidences make me believe this is all planned, and beautifully orchestred. I just hope you're a puppet like me, and not the master.
I walk on a golden road, onto the peaceful woods of desperate lover land. I trip on a golden nugget and bite the dust. I get up and look around, wondering how did I not see this one coming? Then I remember my old blindness, my unreasonable infatuation. I remember the stumbles and the scratched knees, the running nose and puffy eyes. Then I remember what it all lead to. I remember it is all worth it.
And even though it's kinda sore, I smile. I fell and won't be able to run for a while. It gives you a chance to catch up and carry me.
Be a shoulder to lean on, as you've always been.
I smile but it hurts.
It hurts but I smile.
I stand, looking up at the blearing speakers, feeling your music in my pulse.
I know each reason behind a song, every hope you put in the next tune. I know how much the moment you hit play matters and how the second of stand by makes your heart sink before the party agrees with your choice and picks up the words.
I know how you lead the crowd at the tip of your fingers, your headphones half-on half-off, you double yourself in here and out there, sharing the vibe with the crowd while anticipating their next moves, the ones you will set and encapsulate in a song.
Like the master of puppets, you get all these broken bodies to move along, to jump, jump higher, and shout. I think they believe they’re singing, but they shout, shout along to the music, while you prepare your next move. Your little smile is the only trace of pride for your skillful ballet supervision. And sometimes you enter the game yourself, and dive into the pulse of the night, into that eddy current of sound swirling in the room you have created.
I stand in the middle. Sometimes I let myself go with the flow and bring my body to the beat you impose. Always, always I remember that I am only right here right now thanks to you. And always, I try to look my best, to dance my best, to make you proud.
I stand in the middle of the crowd, looking up at you, feeling your music in my pulse. You smile to me and I smile back, knowing that for every prettier girl laying their eyes on you, you only have yours on me. So I shine brighter, I grow taller, I sing louder. I try to be the one you’d want to be with if we didn’t know each other. I relive the thrill of beginnings and the lust of first times. And I pride myself in being the DJ’s girl.
I am looking forward to the next gig.
My only regret is that I don’t get to dance with you, so I dance for you.
I forgot the burn of crying eyes. I forgot the releasing pain you feel when you close your eyes after having cried.
I want to forget again. I haven't been down in so long, I don't want to fall again.
I will fight.
I seem to lack words. Or maybe time.
But I write when I am upset, and I seem to be doing ok.
Still softly and truly in love. Finding a way through life and work and adult serious stuff. Wondering a bit where tomorrow should happen. Where I should make it happen.
And we still don't know why sparrows love the snow.
But I do love automn and winter. The cold nights are more reassuring then bright lights. Warm winter houses are more welcoming than wet mild summer days.
I look back, and I look ahead, and sometimes I get dizzy.
So I just hold your hand and keep walking.
It's hard to put into words.
It is a feeling that goes with a background of sandy shores, of low hills covered of sea grass battered by the wind. Blue-grey waves are rushing lazily. It is rather cold, and the wind is blowing from the ocean on my right cheek. Somewhere nearby, it is raining, and I can feel a few drops on my face.
It is a feeling that is both in my mind and in my body. I'm alone and I think of you. And suddenly I can feel you beside me. I can feel your warm hand holding mine. I can feel your body protecting mine from the wind blowing as you walk by, slightly in my back.
It is a feeling that has its own body, its own essence. It is the air between my jacket and my jumper. It will the chill up my spine. It is the tears I'm fighting against.
It is this feeling that a minute can destroy. How badly I want to look back to see if you're actually there. How badly I want to discretly turn my head, just a little bit, to get a glance of you. And inside I know that I musn't, because doing so will make it all stop.
I never feel so lonely than when I could swear you're with me. As if absence was crystallized into a draining presence, a black whole that pumps all my energy, all my joy.
It is a feeling I mainly, if not only, feel when I back home in Brittany. Ireland is you, and you are Ireland. Being away from one or another makes me uncomfortable. I am not sure what that implies and maybe I'll regret saying that later. But I wrote it spontaneously and I know, deep inside, I know it is true and that I'm just pretending otherwise. When I'm away from Ireland, I feel homesick, I feel out of place and unwanted. When I'm away from you, I feel homesick, I feel out of place and unwanted. A passerby in my own motherland. A stranger on both shores.
Home is where the heart is, and you know where that is.
Very true indeed.
- D. ...?
- I love you too, Marianna.
You provoqued a heartquake.
When I asked how you knew I was going to say that, you simply answered that you were feeling, and thinking the same at this same exact moment.
It comforted me in my thought that we often "say" our love to each other in other ways than words and that when I thinking I should say it but don't in fear to sound fake, or to be redundant, you actually are thinking the same thing. You know what I mean?
I often hang on to your lips in expectation to hear "the three words". And hearing them, in your rare, chosen moments, always moves me as much as the first time. So I stop myself from saying it everytime my light, versatile, love-giving brain wants me to. And only say it when I deeply mean it, hoping that it moves you too when you hear it.
You proved, once again, that you're wiser than you let show, and much wiser that I am aware of. I seem to forget it. But you were right, saying it too often decreases its meaning, until, maybe, it doesn't mean anything anymore. As if a relationship is through when a certain number of empty, shallow "I love you"s have been thrown in the air, at the end of every phone call, on the way to work every morning, or after every kiss.
I don't care if it sounds pretentious,
I like to think we're better than that.
I will be looking for your hand in the crowd, like an island in an ocean of bodies.
And you better not let go.