Yesterday like any other evening they watched a movie. Apart. Around 8pm he always writes to her the name of the movie so that they can watch at the same time. They have been doing this for many years. After the movie they write to each other and share their thoughts on the movie.

Yesterday he picked a new movie “Hector and the search for happiness”, a light comedy of a psychiatrist and his journey in the search for happiness.

At midnight they asked each other what made them happy.

Happiness is defined by moments, short moments, long moments. An immediate well-being state of mind. There is nothing else to think about. For an instant, they are happy, just like that. Happiness is when they manage to be together. Time stays still when they are together. Only that counts. Happiness is when they forget about others, when the world outside does not exist for them anymore. Happiness is when they do not care about what could happen next. Only the “now” counts.

Happiness is looking at his eyes and seeing the light of the sun, and even the sun does not come out that day yet, it is still shiny enough. Happiness is smiling for nothing particular just because he is there.

Happiness is the idea of him. Only the idea.

Happiness is each silly emoticon he sends during the day to cheer her up.

Happiness is the good morning song he sends, the “how was your day” song he sends, the good night song he sends.

Happiness is how they live their feelings without worrying about the consequences or the future.

Happiness is how she can write about him for years and all the tiny little things concerning him could be like the universe for her.

Happiness is not only love or being loved, it is far beyond that feeling.

Happiness is particular, it is them and the way they keep on caring about their feelings.

Happiness is when there is no way out than to love each other the way they love each other. Even if they are apart and will be more than apart.

Happiness is knowing all the difficulties and not to avoid them.

Happiness is courage and in their case, certainly a great amount of craziness.

Happy New Year to you !

My love,

Your words came in the night while I was asleep.

The start into 2015 seems peaceful. I am convinced that one day we will be together.

I wrote to you at 00:00 that I would bribe God to give you the best of the best.

You wrote to me that nothing should need to be said as we know we are here for each other.

I am in a couple with a man who leaves me alone yesterday evening because his child decided not to come to my place. They were up in the mountains with friends and he agreed to that. I was supposed to join them but my lumbago did not allow me to. I was surprised they did not even think to take the train 2 hours to get back to the city to be with me on the 31st. I am still with this man. I have tried and put all the efforts to make it work. I have even forgotten you to make it work. Symbolically when I am sick I cannot count on him. I don’t mind spending yesterday evening thinking of you. I only mind that I am not free and somehow I am not completely yours in this way.

I love you. I love you with everything I have, with all my heart. You have been my inspiration for the blog. You are in my mind every single day. I was such a fool to think that I could forget you and move on. You are the kind of man who prefers to see me happy with another man. You are scared not to be able to give me a stable life, a normal life. You think you are poor and cannot afford a decent life for me. But you give me everything else. You are the air that I breathe.

January the 1st. I need to get out of my relationship. Not because of you. I want to be free. Not because of you. There is no connection whatsoever between the failure of my relationship and you. Not because of you. Because of the love I have for you since years. The love which impedes me to love someone else though I tried.

You are apart. You are royal. You are everything I like, love and treasure. Everything. I can’t say enough. Everything. I can’t find anything I dislike in you. Most of all because you are free, not judgmental, generous.

I can’t write always the same thing. I love you. And as of this 1st January I will grow old with you. I have to.

You are my preference


Preference is the instantaneous choosing of something which attracts me, which attracts my seeing, my hearing, my touching, my senses.

When I look at a landscape, I don’t see only the landscape, I see first everything in it. Then I see you. Each landscape talks to me like you would talk to me.

You are my preference. You are the landscape.

You are the life which is going on in me.

The rain is still pouring outside. The night is dark.

I see with your eyes

I hear with your ears

I feel with your heart

You are my preference

In revelations

In perception

In sensation

This love feels just right

It is another quiet Friday evening. I had an early drink with a dear friend who was in town for a conference. It was very nice to see a familiar face and a friend who knows me well. He is expecting a baby and is in a happy couple. His good vibes were precious to me. We had a good talk and even though we had never seen each other a lot, we were always close to each other. He has a mature approach related to couples and had found the right woman. It makes me feel happy for him and it gives me hope that nice couples in love still exist. He said something like: “You will know when you meet the right one. Because there is something so beautiful, so dear to you, so intimate. You will just know.” I did not need to answer to my friend because I thought exactly like him. The “right” one is so particular. This person could be all “wrong”, but just “right” for you.

I know it too. Because I love you in such a way that I am the only one who knows and understands. Because your beauty is a beauty just for me. I see it as beauty but maybe nobody finds you beautiful. I find you funny and smart but maybe to other people you are normal and dull. You are just so right to me. I can’t imagine anything else. I know all your flaws. But I never care. Your words arrived just when I said goodbye to my friend. My friend told me that the most important thing is that I feel good and whatever direction I had taken, I had fully accepted it. He was one more time right about it.

I have chosen to love you. So far away. In my own way. There is no rational explanation to it. But then there are also a million of explanations to it. It is personal to me and important only to me. I am not waiting for you. I am holding back my life for you. I just love you because it feels good, it feels right.

The tramway with my friend inside moved slowly away. I watched him going away. Till the next time, I said to myself. The love for you this evening was sweet and strong. I felt mature and strong. I decided not to go out tonight. I like the loneliness on Friday evenings, being with you in  my mind, avoiding crowds and noises. This love is so right even in its loneliness it feels right.

A closer look

Follow my eyes – This is the world I see – The world of my normal daily life

Buildings – walls – sky – still-lifes – trees – Everything seems normal and familiar – My eyes are accustomed to these images without noticing them anymore. The existence of these things surrounds me but I don’t always see it. But if I take a closer look, I give them more meaning and sense, not something particularly more important or intellectual. I just look at these images with more awareness. And it feels good.

Just like you who seems normal and familiar. In your stillness. In your presence and absence. Yet if I take a closer look at you, you are everything. You mean everything to me but it is so obvious that I don’t SEE it anymore. My eyes don’t see you because I am used to you.

I just need to get a closer look at you to feel different in my world. And to see you again.

The pumpkin soup

“In traveling, a companion, in life, compassion,'” she repeats, making sure of it. If she had paper and pencil, it wouldn’t surprise me if she wrote it down. “So what does that really mean? In simple terms”
I think it over. It takes me a while to gather my thoughts, but she waits patiently.
“I think it means,” I say, “that chance encounters are what keep us going. In simple terms” (Kafka on the Shore – Haruki Murakami)

Maybe it is the color of the leaves turning these last days into a warm orange, leaving little by little the light yellow tone of the last weeks.

Maybe it is the view of some pumpkins arranged with some beautiful seasonal flowers in front of the same flower shop where I pass by every day on my way to work.

Maybe it is the smell of the huge pot of pumpkin soup in the canteen of my school, prepared by the same old lady working there since years and who only communicates with me in her dialect, which is difficult for me to fully understand but the sound of it is very familiar to me by now.

Maybe it is the combination of all these things. It brings me back to the memory of the last time I had tasted a pumpkin soup.

I had never been travelling somewhere without first having booked a hotel or a place where to sleep, or having known the address of where I was supposed to spend the night. I had accepted to come visit him, whom I had never met before. Not because I was particularly a curious or adventurous person. I had accepted the invitation because I had never been to his country, which is so close to mine and which is also famous for its beautiful landscape. Because his mails were warmhearted and his invitation sounded very genuine. I felt like I could trust him even though we had never met. I had made the trip knowing only that I was invited to stay for one night at his sister’s place. That was the only thing I had known at the time.

A few years before, in his country, there was an ugly sad story of a man who had abused his daughter and kidnapped her for years in the cellar of their house. The story was a shock and had thundered all over the world. When I told my best friend about my trip to this same country, without knowing the man with whom I had communicated through mails, my friend told me to leave him at least the name of this man. He said that with a smile. He did not particularly worry about me because deep down there was nothing to worry about. I laughed back and I told him that I would text him beyond arrival to tell him that everything was fine. He answered me: “Do you think that you would still have a phone connection in the cellar?” We both laughed and I was more than confident that I would be fine. The tone in the mails of my “pen pal” was a strong hint of his kindness. I could be wrong because we never really know a person until we really know, but I was still confident.

When we arrived at his sister’s home, she was preparing a pumpkin soup. His sister was his twin. She was beautiful and shy. Her boyfriend was there too and it was a nice coincidence: he came from where I come from. We started to joke around our own dialect. I felt at ease. I remember the smell of the pumpkin, mixed with ginger and cinnamon and some other spices. I remember she put quite a lot of spices. Then she prepared the table for us and went out for dinner with her boyfriend. It was a nice gesture to have prepared dinner. I was in the middle of the countryside, somewhere in a new country for me, in an apartment of a nice young lady who did not speak my language but who did prepare me a soup and who only smiled to me as an answer to all of my questions. The smell of the pumpkin soup started to embalm the kitchen and slowly the whole apartment. My “pen pal” opened a bottle of red wine. We spent our first evening with pumpkin soup, wine and music. Later in the evening, I told him the story of the “cellar-psychopath” and my best friend’s joke, he gave me the address of his sister. I did not text my best friend to tell him that I was fine. I did not need to know where I was. We probably finished the pumpkin soup by then. I drank one glass and a half, at most. He had to finish up the bottle instead. Then later in the night, his sister called him to ask if we were alright and to tell him that they would be back in half an hour, so that we could get dressed in case we were already undressed and might be in the middle of something. She was funny for having thought of that. It was a spontaneous thought though. Then they came back later on, she and her boyfriend. We opened another bottle of wine. We had chocolate and pistachio. She lit candles everywhere in the apart. We chatted for a while. Nice country, nice people and nice pumpkin soup.

The next day, as planned, we left her place. I was supposed to stay one day in his country. I stayed four days.

The pumpkin soup or anything related to pumpkin, even the color, always remind me of them. The twin sister-brother, she was sweet and he was spicy. She was shy. She stayed in silence but was easier to understand. He communicated but his words were enigmatic. Their country was beautiful, as beautiful as mine. Trusting his mails was a good thing. Not booking a hotel in advance was also an awesome idea, after all.

The definition of the verb “to miss”

Today in a letter of my aunt from Nashville, she shared with me the meanings of two verbs in Vietnamese: “to lack” and “to miss”. In English the definition of “to miss” is “to discover or to feel the absence“. In Vietnamese, these two verbs hide a causal relationship. “I miss because I lack”. There is also a common sentence stating something like “We only miss something which is not yet complete”.

It makes me think. I miss him. However I don’t consider myself as incomplete. I miss him. So much. And I am so complete. Already.

It is possible that I misunderstood the Vietnamese language’s fineness.

I miss him. Me being a whole.


One recurrent question comes up each time in conversations I have with friends, they always ask me: “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”. In terms of relationships or love.

For the last three years, I have always answered: “I don’t know what I want.”

It never seems important to me what I want. How can I know? Things change, I change, people change. The idea of having to define and to dig into myself to know what I want has always slipped through my mind.

But not earlier than tonight, suddenly I have an answer to that. A very simple one. I want ROMANCE. But when I checked the dictionary and Wikipedia, I was not quite satisfied with the usual definition: “Romance is the expressive and pleasurable feeling from an emotional attraction towards another person associated with love.”

Romance for me is more related to “romantic” gestures and attentions. Romance for me is to develop a deep connection with someone whom you can trust, it could be  an emotional attraction associated with love, or sexual desires, or a true affection. It is not important to fall in love with the person. What is important is the romantic exchange between this person and me but within trueness and honesty. It can be a platonic romantic affection or an ardent romantic love affair, or a strong friendship. The most important ingredients are respect and trust. And no games playing. Ever.

Romance between me and the other person would be like living in a sweet dream or in a bubble soap, colorful, beautiful and light, yet fragile if not handled with care. Untouchable by meanness, hypocrisy or deception. Romance to me is as simple as saying “I miss you” without being scared of the reaction of the other person. As simple as being spontaneous when I want to talk to the person without being judged. As easy as holding someone’s hands whenever you want to, and knowing that he will always like it, no matter what.

I am still looking for this person, the one who can bear with me this concept of “romance”. Who can understand that romance has little to do with “being in couple” or “being in a relationship”, it is about giving selflessly, being romantic, gentle to the other person, caring without demanding. As long as it lasts, making it last. In my romance, it would never be fear. Love is a possibility, is a plus-value but not a sine qua non condition. In my definition of romance, everyone would be free to love, to give and to receive and act truly and completely connectedly to himself first.

Is this ever possible ? Or am I living in a world of fantasy and unrealistic thoughts ? Could my idea of romance exist in our world ?

I want beauty, any kind of beauty, in a word, in a song, in a smile.

I want sweetness, in a word, in a song, in a smile.

I want trueness, in a word, in a song, in a smile.

In an endless connection.

That is my idea of romance and that is the closest to the idea of what I want.

The songs

I love music. Nothing new about that. Lately I love music even more. To be true I love the songs and music he shares with me. Above so many other things. I need his songs. As essential to me as water, as breathing. I have wings listening daily to his music. My heart feels light.  More than words, he had chosen these songs for me. Sharing music and songs that you like to someone is a nice and meaningful gesture.

Songs are invented for friends, for lovers, for young and old people. I don’t know what we are to each other and what is going on between us. It does not matter as long as the songs are there. Songs are invented for him and me. Sure thing.

The good things

I don’t know what it means to live. Because life is me.

I don’t know what it means to love. Because love is in me.

I can’t separate the life, the love from me.

I carry them everywhere, with me.

Being life is a good thing, I guess.

Most of the times the “all-in-one” feeling is wonderful.

Sometimes the love is heavy, its consistency weighs on my chest.

Being life is a good thing.

Being love ? A question mark pops up once in a while.

Still, I don’t want to separate this weighty love from me.