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.

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.

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.

Depaysement | ramblings

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The art of not belonging anywhere, I so impressively excel at.

For the longest time I believed it was my fate to always be split in between places. Always  on the road and never truly finding home. It’s like I’ve had my soul split between different places and I could never seem to find the glue to stick them all together, life always puled harder than I did.

Throughout the years I found places and people that only broke me more, split me more, and I became comfortable with my broken pieces. I found a flawed way to protect my self from being torn in between places and decided I’d be better off on my own. I’ve had enough, filled my quota and wasn’t taking on any new admissions. I was gonna become my own home. And I succeeded, although I shouldn’t have.

People are great, they add color to your life, and it’s quite a dumb idea to isolate yourself from them. The world will still mistreat you when you’re by yourself, and on top of that, at end of the day you won’t have anyone to turn your silence into music.

It wasn’t a bad life and it wasn’t a good one either. It was … lukewarm. I’m quite found of lukewarm feelings, they don’t tend to hurt.

I’ve read once about the Japanese art that consists of repairing broken pottery with gold. Kintsugi. Not only are they fixing the items, they are turning their flaws into value. I was broken, split, and somehow I found my gold. I’m still torn into pieces, but there’s something holding me back together. This is a really lame and shitty metaphor, I wish it wasnt so truthful.

And I don’t wanna say it aloud, I fear it’ll make it hurt more later on. But I’ve been feeling like I’m home. Whatever that means exactly. And the thought of losing it freightens me. For once, I’m scared to move on to the next thing. How many more places out there exist that’ll make you forget you’re missing a few pieces?

It’s not perfect, no place is. I’ve had some miserable days, I’ve been angry, frustrated and left with tears in my eyes. However, I haven’t found myself searching for an emergency exit, looking for an excuse to leave, like I did many times before.  Even when it sucks, it ain’t that bad.

It took me a while to find a place where I actually wouldn’t mind staying and a routine I wouldn’t mind falling into, and people who I wouldn’t mind splitting for. It took me a while to be willing to do that again.
Because life can beautifully ironic, the one time I wouldn’t mind staying, I’ll have to leave. And on one hand, I’m glad I won’t get a chance to over welcome my stay, it’s good to leave on a good note. To leave in a way I can still miss it later on.

However, I’m left to admit that I’m a furtive creature and I just wanna stay home.

I never loved you more as much as I love the memory of you | ramblings

How the heart grows founder in the distance.
It’s been a while, yet I’ve never loved you
As much I love the memory of you today.

We go from sinners to saints when we pass the gate
But I don’t recall a single one of your mistakes
All you ever dared to do was love
And I can only aspire to ever be that brave.

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In days like today, when I feel the least of myself, you often come to mind. How much you wanted me to be happy, to live a full life and love wildly. And I hold on to that. Your hopes and dreams for me keep me from fainting.
It’s funny that even after all those years, you’re still the one pushing me to be better. I’ve only known you for slightly more than a handful of years and the memory of you still hunts my days. I can’t go anywhere and not bring you with me.
I can’t hear your voice in my mind anymore, I can only recall how it sounded. Soft, slightly raspy, and joyful. You always talked like you were smiling.
It’s funny how my most vivid memory of you is from a sunny morning during summertime, the sun peeking through the blinds, you sitting at the edge of my bed, explaining to me what it meant to mourn. Your wife’s brother had passed, and when you told me she would be mourning, I asked you what that meant, I hadn’t been taught that yet. I must have been 6 or 7 at the time. I knew very little and I wasn’t the best kid, but you loved me still. And you cared for me, you always had my best interests at heart. You gave me a yellow bird, because I liked to help you take care of yours so much. You whistled everywhere you went, and taught me how to do it myself. Every other day you’d call me a different bird name. There’s lump in my throat every time someone ask about the hummingbirds, I still can’t bring myself to talk about you. Not as well as you deserve it.
I’m sorry for failing so terribly at doing you justice. I’ll spend the rest of my days trying to be better. For you. Because of you.

A quiet existence | ramblings

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It’s the middle of June. I’m sitting at a cool coffee place. It’s sunday. It’s sunny. I could say I’m content. I wouldn’t say it’s hard to make me happy, but I’m still picky about it.

Happiness comes in many shapes and forms, and to me, happiness is to be left alone with my thoughts for a little bit. I don’t find being alone sad and lonely whatsoever, it’s quite the opposite actually. Bits like this one help me keep my sanity. There’s no pressure to say the right thing, to make the conversation flow, to avoid an awkward silence.
Silence is underrated. It doesn’t have to be awkward just because it’s quiet, sometimes you can just allow yourself to exist in stillness.

It’s a difficult thing to obtain: silence. An even harder thing to find? Silence for two.

People often thing that just because you’re quiet, you’re not connected. When in fact, to me, the goal has always been to find someone I can be quiet with.

As someone who is not the best with conversation, I often struggle to find the right words, and dealing with the pressure of finding the right thing to say can be quite overwhelming, especially when you’re trying to get to know someone.

But how do you get know someone if you don’t say anything? I guess words flow once the silence is comfortable enough. When you don’t feel the pressure to say something, you can talk about anything. And that’s what I want. An easy conversation starts with the lack of need to say something.

I guess I want the impossible. I’ve always wished for something that doesn’t quite exist. And I don’t bother to settle for less than my impossible standards. I’ve grown too comfortable in my own silence to let someone else disturbe it. I want someone who will do more than respect my silence, I want someone who will understand it and crave for it as much as I do.

I don’t think that’s impossible. Or even necessarily difficult. But I do know that’s not everyone’s cup of tea. I’m wiling to sit by myself for many more sundays until I find that perfect silence for two. In the meantime I can just waste my words here instead.