Wonderful troubles. Oh, what a week, Paris. It's
nice to finally stay in one city, albeit not
you, for more than 24 hours. My sore arms, from
carrying a heavy tote from train to train, sorely
agree. I've been spending a lot of time with
different people too this week and, though it
still sucks my energy, it's nice to finally feel
unaffected by others' chaotic noises worrying
about things they cannot control while being
indifferent about things they should actually
do something about, like all the injustice done
onto others, par exemple. I remain stubborn in
my trust in everything good and my capacity to
make the best out of any circumstances. Circumstances
have helped reveal myself to me, Paris. Even
the ones I put myself into. Especially the ones
I put myself into. Like breaking up with a French
boyfriend while clearly my British passport needs
a visa to even spend more than 90 days every
180 days in Paris. Never mind the stages of grief
and heartbreak I've had to navigate around. But
spring is here now, Paris. And though times are
uncertain, it's nice to finally know oneself
so well without the urge to explain it to anyone
else. To be hopeful, like the mirror across this
bed, and unwavering, like the reflection of the
flat sheet draping on the floor. There are better
analogies, I'm sure, but... This is me making
the best out of my circumstances, not being able
to help myself but see the beauty of where I
am, not wondering where I'll next be, knowing
I am always in the right place at the right time.
Also, did I say flat sheet? I must be a grown
-up. And did I say dripping? No, I did not say
that. Don't get ideas. In the mirror, I can see
my hair is growing longer, and so is my patience
with our current physical separation, Paris.
(two weeks already!) for I know myself and the
certainty of my desire to be with you in the
best possible ways. There will be no 'by any means'.
There will be no compromising myself for it only
feels good when my actions are aligned with my
principles. Even with the illusion of hardships.
I... want all the basic illusions about how one
should live, or indeed how one should live happily
in this world, to be exhausted. Like the guilt
at night for not having produced anything worth
selling that day. Like the tinge of self -pity
for not being in a steady relationship. Like
making money the goal instead of seeing it as
one of the means to feel liberated. Like feeling
rich only when having instead of giving. Like
the joy of being exclusive or making arts inaccessible
to people. Oh, what a dreamer I am, even when
I'm awake. Especially when I'm awake. Someone
asks me recently what a good day looks like
for me. And my answer is, I don't have a typical
day. I could be running around the train stations
with a heavy tote bag on my sore arm and I'd
be having a good day. I could be terribly sketching
a postcard in a cafe. I could be cuddling my
teenage daughter and her cat. I could be sitting
in a theatre being inspired or unimpressed by
a performance. I could be walking in the rain
with tears on my face. Or I could be having a
picnic in a park with someone having a socialist
talk as a form of flirtation while sketching
each other very badly. I'm rejoicing in this very
hour of freedom, to breathe and to write my heart
out from this warm barge on the river Thames
under the Albert Bridge and to reach your ears
and your heart's peripheries and make you feel
less alone, maybe even less afraid amidst the
uncertainties of your life, of our life. I already
said I'm a dreamer. And I know I'll rejoice in
making my coffee and catching up with my chatty
boat friend before deciding what wonderful troubles
I'll get myself into after. londres, le 22 mars
2026. je t 'embrasse!