Most of the time I know what to say, I just don’t know what to say for 15 minutes. Not without jumping 59 times (a topic every 15 seconds, first one doesn’t count as a jump—see how mathematical, and jumpy, I can be?) from one thought or topic to another. I see it as a weakness, so I’ve been holding on to not talking, not writing, trying to put everything together and organised in my head first. I ended up not writing at all, for far too long. It missed me. I missed me, because I feel exist when I write.

You know some people are doing better when they are left alone, working on a secret project, giving themselves plenty of space to breathe all the time or just busy making 10k a month. Me, I think I thrive when I am thrown out on stage, maybe not in the centre but in a corner that gets good amount of lights and with an audience who can chose, instead of are forced, to watch me

perform.

It’s taken me all my life to admit a lot of things about myself, and this is one of them: I do want attention, constantly, in one way or another; and that I will run away when I get too much of it in one form. This is why I need to write. It’s no longer a job; it’s essential; it’s air. I need to present something to the world and create a bigger chance to get attention. You see, it’s good enough for me to be able to think that I might get attention for something I do and love doing— acceptance, questions, rejections, admirations, headache, a hidden love that will never die, or, better still, money.

This is why I consider myself a city person. Of course Dorset, where I’ve been living since 2012 is green and beautiful and full of sheep, but I don’t get inspired by all these beauties. I get inspired when I meet or just bump into people. I don’t actually go out much, but I need the assurance that I have the options to go out and be amongst people, different people, with mind as complicated or as broken as mine, at all times.

Do I always get attention by being amongst people though? Of course I do! I mean, look at me! When I wear a red dress and high heels with a made up face heads turn, when I walk in my pyjamas and greasy hair in a saddest pony tail you’ve ever seen heads also turn, although perhaps for completely different reasons. Okay, maybe heads don’t turn, maybe only minds turn and eyes secretly rolled—you know what the Brits are like.

Now, I’ve tried Paris since 2016, going back and forth between living there and in Dorset for a few months in turn, and I can say I loved it. I adore Paris, with all my heart. I love that people there generally speak their mind (read: rude)—ils dissent ce qu’ils pensent. If they think you look like shit they will ask you why you are looking like shit—not that they look great themselves, and if you look amazing they will say so and even ask you out for a coffee straight away. There are many other things I like about Paris, I’m sure I’ve been constantly preaching about it during my “Imagined Paris” period.

It was scary in the beginning—Paris, having been keeping myself in the shade of the country life and people (who are sometimes shady). Some kind of a shock, not to mention missing home and my family. It was worth every tear and every nervous breakdown, however. I began to discover myself again, to properly meet her, to have a drink with her, to bed her and to get to know her again

and better.

Also in the beginning, I started to think that I was an escapist, that I just always wanted to run from wherever I’ve settled and that it was a bad thing, a weakness, a really, really bad thing.

No, it is not!

Settling down or settling for something for the rest of your life is an illusion, because there is no happily ever after. You get good days and you get bad days, wherever you end up, however much money you have.

So why would I ever want to achieve something and make it feed me forever? First of all, it won’t. Secondly, I just don’t want it—now that is a very good reason indeed!

It is rather unsettling, I know, even for myself, to believe that seeking is what lasts, but I have accepted it and hence am embracing it as a fact, at least for myself.

What makes one life isn’t enough is not because you want to enjoy one good thing endlessly, but because the world is so big and there are too many things to discover for a little human being like myself. Adam was separated from Eve, going around the earth to find each other again; Jesus was crucified and woken up from the death (I mean, Jesus Christ!); and Muhammad had his chest cut open and then to ride a mysterious creature to fly from one place to another—catch my drift yet? I mean, Moses split the bloody red sea to save his life—if you still don’t get it, just invite me to a coffee date and I’ll ignore you altogether.

Anyway, Paris was a good start, or restart, of my life. It has opened up so many doors, within and without me that I didn’t know, or forgot, exist. Now I want to try London. I wanted to talk about this London thing originally but 15 minutes is over. Next time. Hey, I did it! I write! Jumping places but I write!

Maybe my weakness is my strong point after all.

Je t’embrasse,

d.o., 4 avril 2018

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