It's not about you, Paris. Bonjour. Today is
not about you. In fact, it's never really been
about you. Your physical existence. It's about
leftover Indonesian beef rendang and strong coffee.
No. It's about what gives the meaning to my seconds,
hours, and days beyond those irresistible luxuries.
I realised resisting you was futile when I knew
there was so much you could offer to get me closer
to truth and freedom. But I have also come to
realise that there's no use in forcing you or
anyone into my life either. That truth, that
freedom, that freedom that comes from everything
that's true and that truth that is achieved in
freedom, that is the pursuit. What's the point
of leaving London, or Wimbledon, for that matter,
because I don't feel like I'm doing anything
meaningful here if I immediately seek to settle
down in Chelsea, par exemple. Sorry. Let's try
again. What's the point of leaving London, or
Wimbledon, for that matter, because I don't feel
like I'm doing anything meaningful here if I
immediately seek to settle down; immediately
seek to settle down and to have something steady;
immediately run into another prison that you,
Paris, may as well be? Today is the time to walk
the talk. Today is the time to distinguish strength
from qualified stubbornness, whatever that means.
To draw the line between freedom and merely an
escape. To know the difference between being
awake and just not asleep (when in doubt, Sumatran
espresso might just help). What's the point of
rebelling against something you deem so far away
from the truth if you are just chasing the comfort
at the end of the day? I've been faffing about.
I've been clinging to the soothing effect of
having something at the end of this seemingly
dark journey. or at least the idea of that something,
and getting anxious about letting it or causing
it slip away. I'm now ready to leave what I know
doesn't fulfil me behind, as uncomfortable as
it makes me feel not knowing what I will find
or have to deal with when I get to the other
side. And I don't mean just the other side
of the Eurostar tunnel with my Etoile membership.
I'm ready to let go. I'm letting go of control
over what the outcome may be. It takes uncertainties
to reach a conviction. At least that has been
the case with mine. I am doing a massive clear
out. First and foremost, of my wardrobe (soon
to be an ex irresponsible fashion lover here),
my expectation desk, and of my restriction trunk.
In fact, why don't I leave the trunk behind while
I'm at it? I'm not going on a cruise anyway,
though I might just live on a boat, in which
case the steamer trunk comes with me, along with
a stunning curated collection of clothes I haven't
got rid of. Here's to not underestimate the power
of the space, the creative void between no longer
and not yet. By the way, what should I dress
up as for my stubborn boyfriend's French theatre
-themed birthday and project launch party next
Saturday? And what's the weather going to be
like for the next protest against the Indonesian
government the day after, Paris? Because when
I say letting go, I don't mean passively waiting
for my bank account to fill up and for my moving
boxes to find a new address. And when I say the
space or the creative void, I don't mean paralysis.
I simply mean I choose to be free now and I choose
to be true in everything I do. Always. Vivre,
Triple Espresso! Londres, le 14 Septembre 2025.
Je t'embrasse.