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I have nothing to say to you. Nothing so personal, anyway. In case you can’t stomach it. In case I can’t stomach it. 700 words might be stretching it for nothing, or nothing so personal, even if I had been drinking or if I was as in despair as yesterday, but the show must go on.
Yes, the show: that I am glamorously and nonchalantly hopping on and off the train between London and Paris (alphabetically ordered, not by priority) after lounging exclusively with my Carte Blanche pass, nurturing the part of me that I dislike the most – the self-loving part; having a lot of meaningful interactions with wonderful friends old and new, who allow me free and discounted access to shows and the Louvre; spending a decent amount of quality time with a Parisian beau (definitely new), who’s granted me an annual pass to the Palais Grand et Petit plus an unlimited access to his wardrobe and soul, hopefully indefinitely, and; writing a supposedly-poetic and somewhat-witty memoirs, in the form of love letters – or just letters – in between.
Ignore the hours where doubts and frustrations infect my mind and turn into muscle pain (I travel light, I swear; I no longer pack a Persian rug (witty, ha-ha) or three different candles and three different toiletry bags – I have myself to feel at home wherever I go now (witty again), along with La Mer essentials, a few outfit choices and at least four – favourite number – pairs of shoes). Ignore the tears – silent or not so silent, that most definitely come from places other than you, that come with me as a package whenever I set foot, or land my noisy bisous, on you. Ignore my ignorance about where you’re at in the minutes where I feel like I don’t have you – please don’t say on the other side of my feelings; feelings are all I cling to at this moment, along with a couple of business ideas, none of which can currently satisfy my sense of grandeur or my extreme self-destruction.
Tsk, lighten up now!
….
Exactement: I have nothing to say! Nothing light anyway, and we’re only half way. How can I be light pretending I am somewhat reasonable and responsible enough to maintain half of my life away from you while knowing that I am so close to dropping everything I’ve known and built here for the sake of being with you fully but that wouldn’t be reasonable or responsible – would it? Do you even want to be with me knowing how unlight I can be, or am I only this heavy because I’m not there with you, fully? Either way, how can I even breathe regularly knowing that my lung and my heart belong to your bohemian air?
I’m not.
You, of all people, know that I’m a people pleaser, and you know I do it with pleasure. And I still want to please London, and I want to please you by maintaining your connection with it. But how to chill wherever I am is an art I haven’t mastered yet. Wait, is that the goal? Is it so bad to feel so deeply – about you or otherwise, wherever I am? I’m not sure sometimes, and I can’t help my faux Parisian self at all times. Does it only hurt because I’m fighting it – the pain, caused by my inability to see where I’m heading apart from you; by my expecting to hold your hand while walking my own imagined funambule; by my failure to recognise that you have always been there for me through this exhaustingly winding road through my past driven by my straight longing for an uncertain future (or the other way around – don’t get confused), letting me walk, or crawl, at my own pace?
Jacque Brel’s Quand on n’a que l’amour is playing on repeat, in your voice in my head, and I’m trying to live in the moment while forcing my destiny at every crossroads, like the song suggests – my destiny to be with you. I still have nothing, Paris, to offer you and to take me to you, but love – this intense, outrageous and extreme love. Whenever you’ll have me. Whenever I’m ready.
ce n’est pas paris, le 19 avril 2025
je t’embrasse!
d.o
Imagined Paris 