I am a spy

Which means that I will hunt you down, and find you.

Now, I am a spy, but I am also non-violent. And broke. Which means that I don't have a gun : I will not shoot you with a bullet, I only have words. My weapons are a notebook and a pen, and I will write everything that I know about you.

I will write about the way your hands reluctantly hold your ticket at the bus stop, like you don't want to go home. I will write about the tattoo on your arm, the one that says "trust", the word so deeply inked in you that it made my believe that someone you loved one betrayed you. I will write about how your knees went weak when you saw her smile. I will write about how her smile told me that she's falling for you, about how she doesn't care that you're a girl. I will write about your pink cheeks and your tired hands, about your green sweater and your black eye. I will write about the 16 bruises I counted on your leg, about the sadness of your eyes, and I will write "I want to give her a hug", but I will never give you one. Writing, is overwhelming.

And my hands are weak, they are shaking too much. They don't know how to handle it. They are trying too much to embrace all the beauty in the world, but can't help to catch all the ugly, too. My hands have a black bruise on each finger from trying too much. They are trying too much ! My hands are ten pieces of hope combined together. The world is a bad place to live in.

And my words are weak ; they will never have the power of everything they are trying to describe.

People are strong, even when they're crying.

Two years is a fucking long time

On November, 18th of 2011,  I wrote : « Today I took the number of a psychoanalyst. I don’t know if I’ll call her, but at least I have something. » Almost two years later, I still don’t know her voice. Call it procrastination, call it fear, call it whatever you want, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Hell, I don’t know what I would have said to her if I had the courage to speak.

Two years is a fucking long time when you have nothing but fear in your mouth. Believe me, I know.

But today, today has been a good day. Today your fear has been crushed by lips so delicate that for a minute you thought you could fly. And really, you’ve never felt so light and strong at the same time.

Rejection

I fall too hard, too fast, and each time there is nothing I can do, it’s too late already. There is no time for my brain to stop my heart from its irregular beating, and my breath to shutter at every touch, and the silly things I do when I’m around her.

She doesn’t do it on purpose, I know it. I know it, but still…

You know, I try not to look at her, I try really hard not to smile and build stories around people we see and houses and buildings we walk by. It’s too hard though, because I like stories, and because it makes me understand hers better. I long for every memory she allows me to catch, and I remember everything.

I also try not to dream about her, because I strongly believe that if I do, I will not be able to see her at all when I’m awake. And I can’t bare the thought of never seeing her again.

With that, I woke up every morning with a strange feeling. Rejection. The worst type of it, precisely. The one that people aren’t aware of. And I like her despite of that, despite of the fact that she doesn’t do it on purpose. She doesn’t know I like her. Or else she does, but she tries not to see it. She chooses not to see it. Either way, she made a decision. So every touch is a friendly one. Her smiles never reach hers eyes, because she doesn’t have eyes for me.  

With her, everything is contained.

You know how I try so hard ? Because everyday, when it’s time to say goodbye, I avoid kissing her at all. I choose to be awkward instead of giving her a kiss on the cheek and receiving one in return. I make a decision. I say « bye, see you tomorrow », and I wave at her as I continue walking on the street. And there’s this strange feeling again. Rejection. Hers, but mine too. 

Never ending story

I've always loved books. Always.

But for a while now, I was convinced that I would never find the perfect book. There were days I  thought it didn't even exist. And some other days, I sat at my desk and began to write.

Those days were full of hopes, but also questions. I was short talent and patience to write a book, not to mention "the" perfect book. And I didn't know why I cared so much because stories were everywhere, I was surrounded by them... And I could always find comfort in my dreams. So I began to think that the only frontier between exceptional and perfection was control. Books could be pretty exceptional and beautifully written yes, but in my dreams, stories were always better because I had no control over them.

When you write, you have to control your story, because if you don't, nobody will understand, and your characters will be completely drown under your words. And you don't want that to happen, you want your story to be perfect...

But books... they stand between your life and your dreams, between reality and inconscience. You can never be aware of your perfection, unless you're writing while sleeping, but that's impossible. That itself is a never ending story.

The thing is : books are disapointing, more often than sometimes.

So yes, maybe books are not perfect, but words are. You can paint images with words, sometimes better than most artists can with a pen and ink. And even if you can't exactly describe feelings the way you experience them, you still can try.

From this moment, I asked myself one question : why do I write stories ? Why do I love writing ?

And I began to think that writing - telling stories - was not about perfection, that I had to let go of this idea that perfect was what it was all about. In reality, it was about connection. It was about relationships and, more often than sometimes, about love.

Writing was easy for me, well not easy but natural at least. Writing was nice, but what was not easy at all was to sit at my desk to write. Because writing was not about perfection and control anymore, it implied to let go ; and the biggest fear of my life was the idea that I would never be able to find love.

See, love was an ideal concept for me, something to achieve in order to be happy. Love, like stories, was everywhere in pictures, movies, books, other people's lives... but not in mine. So I tried to convince myself that love didn't exist, because love had to be perfect. At least true love.

But what I failed to notice at the time was that love was also about letting go...

And to this day, this is the never ending story number one in my life.