WEBVTT

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I'm not home. I'm not home, Paris. Or at least

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that's how I feel. I accepted some time ago that

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love is my dining table, and it could be anywhere.

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I guess I'm mostly ridden by guilt and fear instead

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of love at the moment, and so I feel rather homeless.

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I want to be alone with you in my words, where

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I could hope to feel most free. But logistics

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and responsibilities keep stopping me. And now

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I fear that I just want to be with you to escape

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logistics and responsibilities. Maybe I should

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just focus on being alone with you and my words

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and let logistics and responsibilities crumble

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in the background. With or without fear or guilt.

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I'm focusing on being alone with my words right

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now, Paris. Because I'm not with you. And I don't

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know what to say. I just want to be held. Despite

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all my sins. For all my sins. For everything

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I felt guilty doing. Or not doing. As a mother.

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As a lover. As a child. As a human, it always

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feels good when I've tackled logistics and responsibilities,

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when I know everyone I care about is all right.

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But then I'd stop and feel as if I have not done

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anything. I feel like I'm not doing anything.

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And if writing is the only craft I know, or so

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I keep bragging, I know I'm not doing my craft

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well, if at all. Rain has been raining. Single

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leaves have been falling. Hearts have been breaking

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and I've had to focus on other matters and that

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drives me away from being one with myself. That

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drives me crazy. For reference, Eurostar train

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from London being held for a couple of hours

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near Paris did not drive me crazy. The fact that

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it happened while someone was waiting for me

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at Gare du Nord did. I feel scattered. I want

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to be selfish one more time. I want to sit in

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the dark for hours or days. To get out of my

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room only when no one's around. Or when I'm ready.

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To walk a long walk in silence. Perhaps in my

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head. To eat my supper quietly. To go to a bar

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or a party and sit alone in a corner. All that

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without having to explain myself to anyone. And...

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preferably without having to hurt anyone, not

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even myself. I want someone to make love to any

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time it feels urgent. I want food on my table

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when it's necessary. I want the dishes to be

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washed, the laundry to be done, the house to

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be cleaned without me lifting too many fingers,

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if at all. I want to be loved without looking

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pretty. I want the kids to be well provided for

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without me chasing the money. I want to not feel

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guilty whenever I see someone unhappy. But this

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love, however thin, won't permit me, Paris. So

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I'll smile in my morning tears. For knowing myself

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and my momok so well. For knowing that. I'll feel

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good again once I've picked up the dirty clothes

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from the floor, made scones for my sleeping boyfriend,

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per example, ordered a linen flat sheet for my

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son, sent my daughter a picture of a vintage

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brooch my boyfriend and I picked for her, and

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finished this letter to you. For knowing that

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it may only feel good temporarily, because all

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I really want is to be alone with you and my

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words, until I'm stripped off the clothes, the

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flesh and the bones and feel so light and so

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much thinner than the love I've got right now.

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So light and free. Free to love. Or just to be.