I have nothing, Paris. 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 memoir 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, haha) 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 - favorite 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 halfway. 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 fully, 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 am
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. Jacques 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!