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I feel like I’m fading, Paris. So much to do. I don’t want to do. And I miss you. A little. Too much. Too. I just want to be. With you. Or with the children. Right. This second. I don’t want to be. On my own. Though I know. I must learn. To be. Comfortably. Again. As I have been. Trying. Since I was five.
I almost lost. Everything. I recently built. Recently. And I was too hasty. To prepare myself. For the worst. And for the best. I had gone through all the scenarios. In my head. On my long walk. And I had come. To accept them. But little by little. And a little suddenly. Everything came back. To me. For me. As something real. Or something to believe in. Don’t know for how long. But that’s not unusual. And in the process. Everything. And everyone. I recently believed. And believed in. Had to be. Challenged.
Forgive me. For being so vague. And hazy. I’ve been having difficulty. Distinguishing reality. From all its opposites. My nightmares have gained. An immoderate amount. Of ammunition. My dreams have been. Fuelled. Unsustainably. There is a strong pull. Toward the old. And the unknown. And it makes me feel. So unfamiliar. With where I am. Now. A little bit lost. Wherever I am. A little…
I feel like I’m fading, Paris. Gasping. For air. Gasping. For certainty. For my brave. scared. little. heart. Part of me thinks. I should have been relieved. By the so-called cancelled losses. The other part finds it tedious. Having to deal with. What I already. Albeit hastily. Let go. In my head. Again.
If only. Emotions. Could be undone.
It’s like… You were told that someone couldn’t pick you up. At your transit. And your clever little brain immediately took initiative. And booked an expensive ticket. For the last train of the day. And now. That was done. You’re told. They’ll pick you up. Because their guest has left. Finally. Or some other silly reason. Should be good, right? Except the train ticket was expensive. Non-refundable. And non-exchangeable. And there is a possibility. The pick-up you’re hoping for. Might arrive. After the plan-b train. Has left. Your transit.
It’s like that. But it’s not that. Is this the price? You pay. For not choosing. To walk. In a previous scenario. Where the weather was rough. The road was dark. But the distance was short. Potentially short. And you said yes. To a fast drive. That took you. To this transit. In the first place.
I guess you just have to wait. A little longer. Now. Wait for everything. Wait for everyone else. To be ready. Or to leave. And there will always be the next. Day. I guess. For anyone. Who can survive. The night.
The wind out here is fading me. I feel. A little. Uncomfortable. Paris. I hope. You don’t. Feel. The same. Though I wish. You could. Sense it. A little. A little better. A little closer. To the source. Of the ache. Where it could be. Just you. Imagined you. And a little bit. Of me. The salvageable bit. Of her.
Je vais bien. I’m going fine. The five-year-old. At the door. Learned. That everyone came back. In the end. In the end. A little late. Later. Than expected. “Shouldn’t have cried. Too much.” “Shouldn’t have got exhausted.” The bed was made. On the cold cement. You made it.
Forgive me. For being. Incoherent. For my broken-up. Sentences. For my unbearable consistency. For my insufferable conviction. For the pain. I’m about to cause. All of it. Better still. Simply. Understand. A little. See me. A little. Here. And there. Every now. And then. With your imagined eyes. That never overlook. My mistakes. And faults. That never overlook. Your mistakes. And faults. Yet. Never. Change.
Everyone. Came back. In the end. To catch. The shadow. Of someone. Who used. To love. Them. Who was. Desperate. To be. Picked. Up. Don’t. Pick me. Up. You are. Fading. Because. I am. In. The end.
londres, le 29 juin 2025
je t’embrasse!
d.o.
Imagined Paris 