A little french | ramblings

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She is very tiny. And skinny. Looks somewhat fragile, however, she moves with purpose, clarity, with a certain aggressive intent. As if she’s proving a point. ‘I look fragil, but I’m actually made of steel‘. She has that parisian charm, a thick french accent and embodies la vie en rose. I’ve always admired her careful carefree posture. It’s a trait I’d like to inherit, the art of carrying yourself easily, so freely, you’d intimidate the fools. She always had a pack of cigarettes in sight – she doesn’t anymore – but never smelled of smoke. She taught me the importance of a good perfume, she liked hers strong, intense, woody. I remember her telling me about her all time favourite and describing it as the perfum a prostitute would wear. I decided then, I would find a perfume like that, and whenever something important came up, I too, would smell like a french hooker. My mum would laugh at this, I taught it was a goal to achieve. A strong, unberarably intense perfume is like a good sensual fuck you to the world.

She is not someone who is particularly looking to be liked, yet she rarely fails to do so. Always becoming too much of a strong presence that cannot be erased. She is kind. So kind. Wears her heart on her sleeve and isn’t afraid of giving, however, she’s very aware of whom to trust at the same time. She found the balance I wish I had. She knows people, knows intentions, life taught her good and bad lessons, and she learned them all. You can’t fool her easily, yet, there are those to whom she’ll give the food in her plate. Even if they don’t deserve it. Specially when they don’t deserve it. She acts out of love, at all times.

I’ve gotten drunk on her stories before, she has so many to tell and they are all full of adventure. She tells them with a certain lightness, as if she was reading them from a book, yet it feels so passionate at the same time. She likes good books, good poetry, and is immensely interested by the matters of one’s soul. She reads cards, owns a spell book and most importantly, has faith. Real faith. The type of faith that would make a priest self conscious. Her faith comes from within, she believes in herself, in taking matters by hand when destiny goes south. She believes God acts by the hands of people, and that is the only way I can understand believing in a greater power.

In her story she is never a victim, she owns up to her mistakes and naivety. She takes pride in her experience and wears it as a shield. Her insecurities will come out, every once in a while, and she’ll own up to them. It would always pain me to hear her talk about her weigh, her figure, her hair. I always believed she was perfect. Some taller, skinnier woman with long wavy hair would never have her charm.

The greatest thing the Parisians taught me was that you don’t have to be in trend to be stylish and you don’t have to be perfect to be charming. It’s quite the opposite actually. People stand out for their little quirks. I know that now. I think she knows it too. That’s probably why, even in her darker days, she’ll carry herself in a mesmerazing carefree manner. By observing her, I would always be inspired to carry myself like I own no apologies to the world.

Growing up, she was always the example I’d like to follow. Her endless kindness and undeniable strength are the two traits I will always wish I can develop. As well as her independence. Everyone would rely on her, but she was always cautious with whom she picked to confess her sins. She never told a story without a purpose. She shared bits of herself to give advice, to keep the conversation going, not quite because she wanted to share them. It’s not often that she calls to talk about her struggles. It’s always someone else’s she shares first. But when she does, when she shares her fears and frustrations, it breaks me. To see her struggle shreds my heart. I would always think of her as someone to whom the world was in great debt with – I still do. To see that someone would dare to be anything less that loving towards her makes me frustrated to the core. To see that the world would dare to be cruel to her makes me question the existence of any sort of greater power.

She is never shy to say she loves me. At home we were never vocal like that, we’re family, loving each other is implicit in our circumstance. So she is the first person, that I recall, to let me know that she loved me. With actual words, not gestures or actions. I remember being a kid and not quite understanding how someone so far away could love me. And yet she would. I was too small to understand that. I know now that loving is just part of who she is. She loves with intent, firmly, undoubtedly. But rarely. You’d have to be lucky to be on that list. I guess I hit the jackpot.

I just wish I could bring her luck when she needs it the most. But all I can carry in my arms is love and hope. Can only hope that’s enough.

2. the one I trust | from me to you

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I guess trust is something you practice. I don’t know where I’m going with this, so just hold on a minute while I ramble my way to a conclusion.

I’ve realized that the reason I don’t trust more is because I’m not used to it.

You never know what people are gonna do with the things you share with them. And you can look at it as being the catch of a friendship, or you can see it as being the beauty of it. I haven’t practiced the art of reliance too often in life. I’ve met people worthy of it, I’ve met those who seemingly deserved it, but I’ve consistently given it only once.

She’s my person. We’ve known each other since we were twelve, became friends a year later and it only took us a few months to become confidantes. I don’t even know if we just casually morphed into the same type of person or if we were both already set up to become it. I think we trust each other out of habit. Many years went by and I have never regretted sharing something with her. She has never used anything I said against me. And she could have! – she knows my darkest thoughts. We’ve been in each others lives consistently. I believe consistency is the back bone of trust.

I can’t see a future in which she isn’t in my life. You don’t throw out the molde of something that isn’t broken. She is my person. If I was ever in a situation where I would murder someone, she’d be one I’d call to help me hide the corpse. If I ever ran out, she’d be the one to know where I would be at. Mostly because, she’d be with me.

I think the reason why we work so well is because we’re way too similar. Our similarities are what connect us and our differences allow us to be friends. We differ in many things, we see the world from polar opposites. It’s almost like we’re the same person, seeing life through two different perspectives. Of course hers, is probably the right one. I’m a little too passionate to be rational, too much of a dreamer to see what life will be. While she can see it as it is. Sometimes almost too well.

It’s borderline unhealthy that we’re allowed to be friends. We can talk for hours and not disagree a single second. We can admit that we don’t see eye to eye and move past it, no hard feelings, end of discussion. She’s the only person with whom silence was never awkward. It’s so stress relieving that you can be with someone and not have to struggle to keep a conversation going if you don’t feel like talking.

We’ll take breaks from each other. Right now, we’ve been closer, but we’ve also been further away. There have been certain times in our lives in which we’ve met new people and drifted away for a little bit, but she’s my person nonetheless. She’s the one I’ll send a text to when I’m going through something I can’t cope with, and she’s there. She never fails to respond when it matters.

Trusting her is kind of a second nature to me. Way to often I have to think of trust as sometimes I should exercise. But we’ve been doing it for so long and we’ve been through so much together that it’s just natural now. But it took a while still.

Going back to my premise, trust is something you practice. And I don’t do it that much, so when I try to, I’m often not great at it. I take my time with my words, I take too long to share something that would be simple to someone else, I take the patience out of my friends for being way to reserved.

There are some people in my life in which I should trust more. Here’ my plea: bare with me. It takes me a while, but I get there. She is my person, if anything she is proof that I can do it.

Septemberish | 2018 in pictures

If august lasted forever, September went by in a blink. And it’s a good thing it did. I couldn’t bare it if it was longer.

September has always been kind. At least from my previous experiences. It is not much of a month actually, it has always been a feeling. A fresh start. Renewed energies.

Well, 2018 tried really hard to prove me wrong.

At first, with the never ending summer. I couldn’t bare any more days of heath, my autumn mode is full on and the weather just doesn’t seem to keep up. The leaves have started to fall, but the sun refuses to do so, and it keeps shining down on us like it’s trying to teach us a lesson. Maybe it is.

Then, the mood.

I don’t know if it is the long lasting heath that’s throwing me off my game, but september was hard to get by. But like all bad and good things, it ended. Hopefully I’ll manage to drown my sorrows in the rains to come.

So there’s that. Hopefully October brings the cold out. Can’t get over this lack of coziness.

43035974_175664436688459_3963501013087813632_n1. Afternoon delights.43016054_708351272851651_2951996039755726848_n2. Sweet mornings.43042935_273168136861011_3111236182797713408_n3. Walks with friends.43013715_310637193053289_794402429582966784_n4. Up there.43042919_538678566571756_6464708121657868288_n5. Bad drinks, good talks.43156477_517535418719341_3213079731515686912_n6. Autumn wishes.

1. The boy I failed to love | from me to you

From me to you, dugged out of my blooming heart.

I am here, as close as the present allows me to be. I am sorry, as apologetic as you’ll allow me to be. These words are no longer mine, they belong to you now, take them with you if you must or leave them be if you can’t bare them. I have to give them to you, they are not mine to have, and if I keep them for much longer they take up all the space in me. I’m overflowing when all I want is to bloom. So take them or toss them, let them out of here.

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  1. The boy I failed to love.

He wrote me poems. In them there were words I did nothing to deserve, between the lines there were feelings I had no intention to keep. I did my best to push him away – or so I thought I did – but closer and closer he got. I could no longer breathe.
I shouldn’t be so scared of being the object of literary affection, but I couldn’t handle the outspoken fondness. I’ve learned to love quietly, shyly and slowly and I grow doubtful of such quick attachaments. He was a tsunami of all good things, but one can drown in rivers, even though the waters’s sweet.

Maybe I’m the one who’s broken – and I say this with all the certainty – I’m too slow for the game. Affection doesn’t come easily to me. It’ll take me years to love someone and even longer to trust them.

His only fault was to pick me out of the 7 billion people in the world. The reason why I would be the object of his poems was baffling to me. Anyone else would have taken them into consideration, while I showed a complete disregard for his feelings. It was not fair, I never was. There’s no narrative in which I’m the hero and I have to own up to that.

I should admit that I’d write about him too. I’d write in detail about the softness of his fingertips tracing my arm. I would turn little things into novels. I could write about him for pages and he could lay in my bed for hours, but hell be dammed if I was ever gonna love him.

It wasn’t fair that I told him I wrote about him. It gave him the wrong impression. I know now not to let people know when I write about them, not when I care more for what I can turn them into for the sake of the tale than for them.

It’s not like I sent him what I wrote. Maybe I should have. I never sent him any words of mine. He sent me his. I never provided him with true intimacy. He can say he met me and went on without ever knowing me. How he kept coming back was puzzling to me.

Had I sent him my words he would have read right through me and realized I was never worthy of his affection, for I could never claim it or even return it. It all went to waste.

I’m sorry I couldn’t let him know sooner how incapable of loving him I was. I’m sorry I allowed him to be vulnerable when I couldn’t even be honest. I’m sorry I’ve let him write to me, talk about me to his friends, paint a picture for a near future, when I knew damn well enough my interest was brief and he wouldn’t have my attention for long. I’m sorry I’ve done it more than once and I’m terrible sorry because I know I’ll do it again.

At last, I’m sorry this is more about me that it was ever about you. In all fairness, at least you can’t say I’m not consistent.

book-ish confessions | ramblings

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There aren’t enough books in the world. 

I’ve came to this realization the other day and it stings. There aren’t enough books in the world and it’s quite dramatic.

On the other hand, there are too many. But none of those out there can ever be good enough. 

People write about love, friendship, adventures, misadventures, grief and lost. They’ll write letters, poems, prose and fiction. There is a sea of books and if you put your hand out there enough, I’ll end up bitten by one of them. I like to read books that bite, but even more importantly, I like to gift books that bite.

Now, I don’t like buying books for others, I see it as quite a personal thing, that you have to do yourself – like buying underwear. But when I think of a perfect gift, a book always comes to mind. To purchase someone a journey from their own couch can be quite a bargain. To have someone find themselves in written words and cure them from loneliness is priceless. We often give people gifts in hope that they’ll enjoy them, but the most precious gifts we can give is something we’ve enjoyed ourselves. It’s like earring someone’s favorite song, you get to know them a little better. Giving books we’ve found ourselves in before is giving a little bit of ourselves in it.
That’s why I believe it is pointless to buy books for others that you have no recollection of.

I like to walk around bookshops, I like the endless possibilities there. Way to often I’ll find books that I’d like to read, but quite rarely do I find something I’d like to offer.

The other day, at one of my favourite spots, while wandering alone in the poetry section, my fingers stumbled upon a poetry book that made me think of someone dear. I sat on the couch, and made my way though the pages. It didn’t took too long before finding out I’d be taking it with me.

We’re all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the starts. (Oscar Wilde)

Something I’ve read once and treasured dearly ever since.

I decided to give a little bit of myself, the book was just collateral damage. Because the truth there aren’t enough books in the world. Not when you want to gift someone you care for.

everlasting august | 2018 in pictures

August went, and went, and went. It dragged it self for so long, we managed to fit all four seasons in it. August lasted for so long, that it is still august as I begin to write this post. That’s right, the month hasn’t ended, but I’m done with it already. I’m calling it a day with august, I can’t take it any longer.

With autumn comes change and I need a little bit of that.

Now, to be fair to august, it wasn’t terrible. I was hoping to get an escape, and I got a visit from some old ghosts instead.

Remember last month, when I said August brings Paris in his sleeve, and that can only be sweet. – Well, that’s not untrue. Although Paris was sweet, I was bitter.

The worst part wasn’t that I didn’t knew how to handle myself for a little bit there, the worst part was not remembering how I overcame these unpretty feelings the last time.

August stung even on the very last day. I can only hope September brings a little bit more peace.

40838690_464005284110749_2063281050385121280_nSweet vandals, an all time favourite.40854072_247785772545459_7845460379843952640_nEveryday sights.40863341_1098592490310753_1953436570300186624_nWriting on receipts.40893088_285546632272164_6632352862863097856_nLate nights.40978488_2185192511803466_7277186376372584448_nReflections, a classic.40994701_530634564033831_7668675712009633792_nEasy mornings.41068532_525372881209529_2852349280910311424_nLost pages.41105481_529749534129437_5876778105867075584_nParis, mon amour.

never ending love | ramblings

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Paris has always brought me comfort. For some reason I always felt more like myself over there.

It never hurt me either, it has always been kind to me. Paris never brought heartache, disappointment or the feeling of failure. I have never over welcomed my stay and Paris never sent me home with a broken heart. Instead, we appreciate our time together. And I like to keep our romance like this. Sweet brief encounters in the summer breeze of august and cold short strolls right before christmas. I always leave Paris feeling restored, like my hopes and dreams have a place and I can bring myself to fulfill them.

I always feel more like myself when I leave as well. Paris allows me to be, unapologetically. I can write without a purpose, sit at a cafe for hours and write my life away without having to call it work for foreign eyes; read my books for hours at the park or by the Seine. Not bother too much about what I wear, just dress as I’m pleased and not mind about judging stares. People allow themselves to simply exist there. At home, everyone walks like their going somewhere, not many allow themselves to sit on benches and read throughout an entire afternoon. But Paris is a city for lovers, lovers of the art. So people stop and create, wherever, whenever.

And I don’t intend to say I can’t do those things at home. It is unfair to say such a thing. The truth though is that I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m more self aware here. I overthink and become too aware of my surroundings. I’ll spot a interested gaze and reflect my own judgement on it instead of overlooking it.

I don’t wanna ruin my romance with Paris. I don’t wanna turn Paris into home and start caring about what people might think about what I do and wear. I don’t wanna move, that’s not what this is about. I’d like to keep dreaming about it, I’d like to escape there and come back home with that refreshed glow from someone who didn’t have to care for a single minute.

The harsh truth is that Paris is really not that different from home. I am the one changing along with the time zones. I’m the one who overthinks existing. I don’t allow myself to live an unapologetic life. So how can I ever be content? That’ll be the greatest achievement: to be as carefree as I can possibly bring myself to (that’s a redundancy, isn’t it?)

Maybe – just maybe – Paris was never a city, it as always been a feeling. And I have to take with me wherever I go, but most importantly, I have to accommodate it here, at home.

 

This didn’t made much sense, but I never do. It’s time to own up to it.