On fear

There are still ghosts in my head
wearing your face
without having
ripped it off
And they’re asking
on your behalf
« Who are you?
How dare you
care for me? »

I could start convusing
from being alive,
if I don’t have you to cool me down;
I’ll overwhelm myself
with the feelings I already feel,
when you’re so alive it hurts.
And they still will be here

I can be brave
not for you
– maybe a little bit for you –
but for myself
If I get out of this torn apart
– wich I will, eventually –
I can afford it
as long as I’ve got this
as long as I’ve got my badass
self
I can be brave for her

It still happens, you know
when I wake up and I think
« there is this much beauty
and kindness and light in the world »
and you make me smile

I did not see you grow
but I can tell by your path
the little movements
when you speak
I feel you

I can be brave enough
not to run away
it wouldn’t be protecting me at all anyway,
would it?
I know what it is
to carry your heart broken
twice
at the same time.
Running doesn’t help
and walking away
even less.

I could do that, though,
carving feelings around you like you’re not here
like they’re the real art
like they’re all that matters
I wouldn’t even
need you, then
We’d be all together
And I’d go back to my writing
quietly
pretending that was work
all along,
and nothing else.

I could
if they convinced me to

But still
you should know
you’re amongst the ones

On avoidance

So,
You’re so fuckin’ great
I wanna write songs about you
songs and novels and poetry
but I never do.
I never write
about what feels good ;
about anything that’s meant to stay the same for a while,
I must remain silent.

I still tried
to drink you out of my system
to joke you out of my system
to cry you out of my system
to fuck you out of my system
all while you weren’t there

But the truth is
I can’t write about you
because if I do,
I might start to move on
and I don’t want that
because you feel good
because
even though you’re this
impossible boy,
even though I can only think,
there is nothing bad to think about,
and I’d like to keep that
just a little
longer

Fucking myself out of loving you
doesn’t work
Crying myself out of loving you
doesn’t work
Talking myself out of loving you
doesn’t work
Wasting myself out of loving you
I haven’t tried that
because you deserve
so much better

I do not want to risk
writing you out of my head
because the truth is
if I do
I might start to move on
towards what?

And
if you’re
the impossible love of this part of my life
what does that make you
and what’s left of you
when I start growing forward?

That makes you
what you were all along

That makes you my friend

Tea houses

Step 1 in every journey : put it on the new ground and feel like you finally came home. Feel it. Allow yourself to.
Step 2 : find tea, and those who love it.
And then you’ll be fine.

When I first flew to Belarus, I had no idea what to expect. Well. That’s not true. I had some ideas, given the friends who had told me stuff they had experienced here, in that same context. The school. The nine-months long intensive acting school they had attended and I was going to go to myself.

They didn’t tell me much about the country itself though – or the culture. Everything was about the school and now that I am here myself, I get why. I don’t think they had time to go out in the world, I know I don’t. So I started to steal it because if not I’d probably die.

They mostly told me about each other, about their connection. “These strangers you’re afraid of meeting now, they said, talking about my soon-to-be French classmates, there is no way you keep see them as strangers after a month.” Well. It’s been five, and they are now as strange to me as can be. The harder I tried to reach out, the further they went, to the point that I thought – it’s just not for me. Why in the name of sanity would I put myself in such a situation?

By that time I did learn a thing or two about connection, though, from the tea bunkers I’ve been discovering under the ground of this city. You would never guess they’re here. You’ve walked for over an hour under the snow in this almost all-soviet-styled city, and then you push a door and take a stairway that leads to a corridor – and there you are. Tea houses. They’re the safe spaces you’ve been longing, and they’re the common ground from where you’ll be able to heal and grow out.

Connection doesn’t lie in all the What’s your names and the Where are you froms. It’s not about over-communication or spending all your time in the same rooms without seeing each other, or even sharing a same language. Most times, connection doesn’t even require words.

It’s the little things. It’s that person brewing tea, gong fu cha-style, in the middle of the streets for strangers and trusting you with the teapot while he walk away for a bit. It’s the ones who won’t let you circle back to your favourite oolong because they understand who you are and why you’re here, it’s the moment when you’re just sat but they’ve been watching you and they decide that you’re ready and it’s time, and they bring the special teas out and share them with you. It’s the French lyrics that pop under the roof because you’re from France and basically the only person here. It’s that one who noticed that you liked that little flat pig ceramic so much that you came back for it – and now he won’t pick another one for you, whenever you come, and it’s the smile you exchange when it’s your turn to notice.

“I see you.”

It’s actually funny, how easy it is for some people to make you feel like you belong, without actually using any words, without saying anything – because they can’t. Because you don’t share a language with each other.

But it makes sense.

It makes sense because connection was never a matter of communication. It’s not the words or the big conversations or the hugging, it’s not even the kissing and the sex. Connection can happen in the middle of all these things, but it’s not what it is. Connection is about seeing someone and noticing that, at that same moment, they are actually seeing you too.

Wherever I went, tea was always a life-saviour – would I share it with people or have it shared by them. Because when it’s not wild nature, when it’s cities and humans and buildings, you have to reach out to someone. Otherwise you’re just consuming the hell out of the place you’re traveling to.

Tea is my common ground. It’s the way I can connect with someone. It’s how I travel, and from where I can find my feet.

It’s actually funny
how easy it is for some people
to make you feel like
you belong.

(How about you start paying
more attention
to these people.
Hmm ?)

The other hideaway

Fear not. In here, you are safe.
Every last thing inside bites,
Yes, but only at oneself.

Not that you have yet seen
The underneath of that peel.
How do you scratch yourself in ?
You may not. You ask. Politely.
And then you may come in.

You might find yourself lost at first
In this messy, yet familiar labyrinth.
You are not ;
The walls will be holding you
As much as they need company.
So reassure yourself.

While you take one step after another
If you ever rise your fingers
Against bricks and paper and clay,
You could feel the breathing, endearing sighs
Of what’s been left inside.

Then you’ll cross figures in the shadows
– Do they live ?
This you shall find out for yourself
Clues here cannot be handed
– Only heard from lost whisperers.

Fear not, here you are safe
And the house can’t stay
Around of you for long.

Fear not, here you are safe
Although you can’t leave it
It will leave you in time
And without noticing
You will stay there and chafe
The very roots from which
You’d been living inside.

Fear not, but be safe.
If you ever come back
There’ll be two of a kind
That shall fall together.

Je crois que je me suis un petit peu inspirée du premier roman de mon amie Zoé, alors, je lui ai emprunté un peu de titre.
•••

Mark’s song

En ce moment, j’écris des morceaux de comédie musicale dont je ne sais pas s’ils deviendront quelque chose un jour.

Mais ils existent, et peut-être que c’est déjà quelque chose ?

Yes I feel fine and well
And happy and jolly
Strong and self sufficient
And I don’t want to talk.

(But ask me again)

I won’t ever need you
You don’t need me either
And dude, that’s all okay
I won’t try to tame you

(When will you come ?)

I can be on my own
I’ll be perfectly fine
I don’t need to be told
What I could be to you

(Will you kiss me or what ?)

You go the hell away
I don’t want you near me
Better off by myself
I don’t want to be touched

(Oh, hold me already)

So you don’t want me here
Well, didn’t wanna come
I don’t care anyway
I wish to remain home.

(I kinda miss you though)

Don’t ever look at me
I don’t want to be seen
Biting my tears back in
None of you’s worth the fight.

(I knew no one would ever like me)

I’m not thinking ‘bout you
Got plenty on my plate
You can’t leave me behind
No one can anymore

(I knew no one would come for me)

Scattered leaflets #2 (suite)

(J’écris des morceaux de choses sans savoir où je vais morceau par morceau. Le premier morceau est ici.)

You know
I don’t think it was even you
it was the trust
the freakin’ trust I put in you
in exchange
for my life

Now it’s hiding
and healing
and licking wounds
I trusted you forever
and now my trust is done with you

You know
now I could give anyone up
for my life

.