Ice cream and tears.

“Désolée pour papa”.

I couldn’t come up with a better sentence, that Tuesday. We sat silently, i started singing comfortably numb, questioned the ethics of being in a funeral and singing, then stopped. But you smiled and you kept on singing. And we listened to the song three hours in a row. It became our every Friday-ritual.

I would never forget this scene. I have seen more dramatic ways to manifest grief. People faint, cry until blood replaces tears..But this one, this one was more me. If i were you and you were me, we would have done the very same, and i wouldn’t ask for a better way.. No words can swath the wound. And no bandage is as good as the one ripped.

Time and silence are two powerful things. Words try to squeeze in between the two and gain an equal esteem. But no, words, you are highly inadequate. Unfaithful to the raw essence, do not show up when needed the most, deviate people and do not commit to schedules.

Each time i tried to write something, i deceived myself(and probably those who try to read it). I finish, and it’s not me. No, not a problem of good enough, but not me. I am not the person who writes because he knows more and want to document you, frankly, i do not know anything better than what i have been taught. What made me write was me knowing what i feel, or at least, trying to figure it out. And throughout this year, that part of me was muted. I can blame time. But i won’t lie, i had time, i had enough time to sit in front of the computer for hours, contemplate the white pixels, write a word, question what’s the point, and stop.

I was never a talkative person. And i remember in an “if you really know me” sequel, that i only talk when i feel comfortable. And WordPress made hell of changes that made me not feel so. No seriously..

But i still believe that this part of me is immortal. That the little girl who watches something, sneaks to the orange basket and hides so people won’t see her tornado, can’t grow up. I know i can’t grow up because it’s been three days that i didn’t remove the hiking shoes i’ll use to scratch a dream from my to-do-list..

Yes, i am my own version of Peter Pan.

Amour nomade-89.

Butterfly

You expect me now to start from A,and get to Z. But who knows me would know i’ll get lost in B,jump to E, or go on and write about four and three.. I’ll tell you a secret,
i have no idea what i’m writing myself.

I wonder what precedes, chaos or simplicity. We must go through the messy paths first to get to a simple conclusion? Or things are by nature simple and ours is to blame
for the deviation?

When someone shares their grief with you, you are able to systematically think of  a simple solution. Go on and throw a sentence doable from where you stand. But if it was your grief to mourn, you’d know how everything goes upside down after the first choc, and there is no practical solution in your head other than praying and promising to become a better person the second the storm passes. Things aren’t that simple now,are they? Storm passes, and promises are surely not kept, and things are back to seem simple.

Things are simple as long as they are not yours, or the minute they stop being yours. And every fool can figure that out by experience.

But only wise men can touch the simplicity of things when they are in the apex of complication. Lucky men they are.