I'm not home. I'm not home, Paris. Or at least
that's how I feel. I accepted some time ago that
love is my dining table, and it could be anywhere.
I guess I'm mostly ridden by guilt and fear instead
of love at the moment, and so I feel rather homeless.
I want to be alone with you in my words, where
I could hope to feel most free. But logistics
and responsibilities keep stopping me. And now
I fear that I just want to be with you to escape
logistics and responsibilities. Maybe I should
just focus on being alone with you and my words
and let logistics and responsibilities crumble
in the background. With or without fear or guilt.
I'm focusing on being alone with my words right
now, Paris. Because I'm not with you. And I don't
know what to say. I just want to be held. Despite
all my sins. For all my sins. For everything
I felt guilty doing. Or not doing. As a mother.
As a lover. As a child. As a human, it always
feels good when I've tackled logistics and responsibilities,
when I know everyone I care about is all right.
But then I'd stop and feel as if I have not done
anything. I feel like I'm not doing anything.
And if writing is the only craft I know, or so
I keep bragging, I know I'm not doing my craft
well, if at all. Rain has been raining. Single
leaves have been falling. Hearts have been breaking
and I've had to focus on other matters and that
drives me away from being one with myself. That
drives me crazy. For reference, Eurostar train
from London being held for a couple of hours
near Paris did not drive me crazy. The fact that
it happened while someone was waiting for me
at Gare du Nord did. I feel scattered. I want
to be selfish one more time. I want to sit in
the dark for hours or days. To get out of my
room only when no one's around. Or when I'm ready.
To walk a long walk in silence. Perhaps in my
head. To eat my supper quietly. To go to a bar
or a party and sit alone in a corner. All that
without having to explain myself to anyone. And...
preferably without having to hurt anyone, not
even myself. I want someone to make love to any
time it feels urgent. I want food on my table
when it's necessary. I want the dishes to be
washed, the laundry to be done, the house to
be cleaned without me lifting too many fingers,
if at all. I want to be loved without looking
pretty. I want the kids to be well provided for
without me chasing the money. I want to not feel
guilty whenever I see someone unhappy. But this
love, however thin, won't permit me, Paris. So
I'll smile in my morning tears. For knowing myself
and my momok so well. For knowing that. I'll feel
good again once I've picked up the dirty clothes
from the floor, made scones for my sleeping boyfriend,
per example, ordered a linen flat sheet for my
son, sent my daughter a picture of a vintage
brooch my boyfriend and I picked for her, and
finished this letter to you. For knowing that
it may only feel good temporarily, because all
I really want is to be alone with you and my
words, until I'm stripped off the clothes, the
flesh and the bones and feel so light and so
much thinner than the love I've got right now.
So light and free. Free to love. Or just to be.