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I’m supposed to write, I say. I’m supposed to say something, Paris. Your embrace – the memory of it – is now two days old and my daughter has just left mine – and London’s – along with some of my make up brushes. I’m supposed to write and I’m late and I don’t care because cuddling my daughter all night and morning feels like an achievement.
I’m being quiet, or trying to be. I’ve been trying to separate anger, and frustration, from pain and I’m prepared to surrender. No more theories, however impractical my mind could be. No more worries, hopefully. What about nightmares and memories – how to deal with them gracefully? I said no more theories – sorry.
I had been busy scheming and planning my exit, but exit from what? London? Having to deal with tax returns instead of that messy pile of poems? And why – because it is hard to be alone and deal with all those? Why – because being alone is where I’m unloved most? No more why’s, no more exit plans.
I’m working on my surrender; I’m rebuilding my trust – with my body, with my breathing, and some kir royal or Hendricks and light tonic with a slice of cucumber and four ice cubes when it’s appropriate.
I’m working on love, and that discomfort in the centre of my belly needs to be taken care of. Or else, I’ll think another appendix surgery might be coming. I’m working on accepting that the road to paradise involves tunnels and disruptions, even the Northern Line if you’re feeling lucky.
So what if I still have to do my well-paying day job while living in Wimbledon instead of living in a stylish boat (or a mansion, whichever comes first – surrender, remember?) in Paris and running my concept pop-up restaurant? So what if I still have to see my boyfriend for a few days at a time instead of thriving in his arms every bloody (or non-bloody) day?
Well, that is a lot of what, actually. But this is not 2016, Paris. I’m not going to recklessly decide to be with you and say to hell with the rest of the world only because I didn’t know how to regulate my pathetic impulses, however close I felt to jumping off a cliff then, only to discover some part of myself. Hell, I’m still not great at regulating them, but here’s luck! Here’s luck to calm, here’s luck to feeling jittery only in the face of creativity – and some other sexy endeavours, obviously!
londres, le 13 juillet 2025
je t’embrasse!
d.o.
Imagined Paris 