I will cry

I gave up on you.

And I cannot even cry.

What happened to me?

Pain does not make me cry.

Sadness does not make me cry.

Even though that strange and cold pain

Like a razor

It cuts and leaves me there

With no tears and sobs.

Just a heavy head and heart

And an endless love

A love with no tears and sobs

Is supposed to weigh less

But it is not true

I feel dizzy and weak.

To drag this love with me.

Now I know

That is why I cannot cry

I gave up on you

But not yet on my love.

I will cry the day

My heart stops loving you.

You cannot be here anymore

A light breeze

Everything is peaceful and beautiful around me

The sun is back

Summer finally takes place

The dead autumnal leaves in my heart

find their way to disappear

The snow is melting in my body

I feel warmness again

Air in my lungs is livable again

In this scenery of my life

There is no place for you

If I let you be

I will get rain

I will get cold

I will get sick

If you want to see me breathe

Please go and wish me peace




So far she was convinced that rain brings sorrows

And cold amplifies the darkness inside her.

But when she looks at the bright sun,

And even when the summer heat invades her skin

She still feels nothing else than a wave of sadness.

She guesses sorrows have no seasons

And her soul knows no other light

Than the glimmer of hope

She desperately cherishes

Through years and time.

Give me a moment

A Bach concerto for harpsichord.

Maximum of volume.

Rain outside, once again.

I am hypnotized by sadness.

The kind of sadness that empties my brain

And my heart too

I can’t feel anything this morning

I hope it is temporary

This kind of sadness

If I don’t fight back

It will vacuum me to further emptiness

I am not the kind of person

Who can be corroded by sorrows

I will get out of my home now

I will take a walk

I prefer

To be eaten into

Grey landscape outside

Under the rain

Washing my brain

Cleaning my heart

So I can scream to the world again


Prayers for my cousin

My two last posts were about motorcycle. What an irony ! My cousin of 21 years-old just got a very bad motorcycle accident. Right arm and hand paralyzed. The news came to me tonight from a mail from my uncle. When the doctor announced to him the bad news, my cousin closed his eyes and did not say a word for a while. Then he said: “No more guitar playing”.

Last week he put on Facebook his status: “yeah, I got a summer job with a desk, a computer and a view on the mountain”. He was proud. Friends and family thumbed up “Like”.

I don’t know what to write tonight. Life is short and in less than a few minutes, your destiny and life could change. Things cannot be rewind.

My summer seems sad, sounds sad. The news hit me when I said good bye to the mother of my lost love. We had dinner together. She was so nice to me. We have a beautiful connection. I walked back home through the Old Town, the cathedral magnificent and proud, illuminated. I was already sad, even before I received the news.

I don’t know what to write so I texted to my cousin: “don’t give up, don’t give up and don’t give up”.

I don’t cry when I am sad. I write instead.

I don’t usually pray. But tonight I pray for my cousin. I hope he won’t give up. I hope you join me to pray for him too.

I hope summer ends quickly so that bad news won’t come anymore.

Motorcycle riding in Paris

There are some things in this world that can be changed and some that can’t. And time passing is one thing that can’t be redone. Come this far and you can’t go back. .(South of the Border, West of the Sun – Haruki Murakami)

I can’t count the number of times I had been visiting Paris. My first boyfriend had been living in Paris. Our seven years together, I had spent one weekend out of two visiting him. I know Paris by heart. I love and hate the city at the same time. Maybe because of the number of times we had broken up and been back together, always somewhere in Paris, our disputes, our passionate reconciliations. First love and experience of love in Paris. That was the thing which made Paris special to me with this mixed love and hate sentiments.

However there is always a first time for everything. After all these years I have never discovered Paris by motorcycle. I did it for the first time this weekend, while visiting an ex-lover.

My ex-lover lived outside of Paris in a very “left-wing” suburb. At the corner right next to his home, you could see the headquarter office of the Socialist party with a huge poster of the recent elected French President – François Hollande. From his suburb, he only circulated in Paris by motorcycle. When I was there, we did the same. We had never taken the subway the whole weekend.

I discovered another Paris. One thing is to get from one place to another, underground using the subway, another thing is to commute out in the open air. You can finally see the connection between the streets, thing I had rarely seen in spite of my at least hundred of visits in Paris.

It was fun and it would be even romantic if we were still lovers, him and me.  Imagine zigzagging all these streets on your lover’s motorcycle, in beautiful Paris. But life is strange sometimes. Two years ago, I would have given a lot to live this precise moment with him, being behind him on his motorcycle, leaning tightly against him and scarily surrounding him with my arms. An indescribable proximity and shared intimacy if we were still lovers. But we were not lovers anymore. It would be heaven if it were still the time when we were struggling to find the right formula to be together. Yes, life is strange and you cannot go back in time, just like Murakami said.

On my ex-lover’s motorcycle, all I could think of was S., the man with whom I am in love at the moment and whom I had lost a month ago.

On my ex-lover’s motorcycle, I knew I did not want to heal. I did not want time to allow me to forget S. I did not want to have the same feeling I have had and gone through with my ex-lover. S. could not be my past. Not yet and not now. Freeze the time.

On my ex-lover’s motorcycle, I was scared but not of the speed. I was scared of my capacity of forgetting people who were once part of my life. My capacity of falling out of love and of letting them go frightened me, even if I knew sometimes it was just a question of survival to let go and to forget. Sometimes to heal, you need to cut off all ties, you need to be a warrior, to fight the pain and sorrows and try to reborn from the deepest cuts. I was me in the break-up process and necessity. Walk away, not looking back, closing the curtains, turning off the light, the show was over. Time does the rest.

I would love to be able to love S. forever. On that motorcycle I knew I could do it if I would not be myself anymore.

After that ride, I was sad. To love S. eternally, I would need to be weak and blind and stubborn. But I could be all of that if he wanted me to.

The motorcycle riding lasted two days, the length of my stay in Paris. The ride I was willing to take for and with S., I wish it could be for a life time. With my weakness, blindness and stubbornness. If he wanted me to.

Each one has his own way

Some use silence to control love

Some run away

Some hide

I use words

Don’t you dare thinking that I hide behind words

That I only analyze/intellectualize/conceptualize love

That I only write love and don’t live it

To those who do not give me a chance

To demystify/simplify love

I just adapt myself

If they use silence as a killing arm

Mine is nothing but only words

But probably this will never work.


When she was around 8 years old, an acquaintance, a psychic, some sort of future reader, told her parents once: ” Your daughter has great thick ears, harmonious round face, sleek beautiful hair, it’s good, it’s good. The only thing is her eyes, her eyes have no sparkles, her eyes are sad, she will always be the one who suffers in love.”

Thirty years later, somewhere in Hongkong, in a dark neighborhood near a flea market, she was with some friends. The whole street full of psychics, hand readers waiting for them to stop by. This is very common in Asia. She agreed to give it another try. She never believed in this kind of thing. An old lady looked at her: “You have nice thick ears, you will be rich, you can keep the money with your ears. Your face is round, good fortune. Your hand are soft, you never have to work hard. But your eyes, my dear, full of sorrows. You will be hurt. And you will end up like a weeping willow by the street in autumn.”

Nice try. She should never have stopped by and paid for that. She did not believe. Her eyes are sad and usually have no specific deep expressions. She is just so short-sighted. There is a scientific explanation to that.

She always has a scientific explanation for everything.

Yes, she has been hurt in love. But that was not because of her eyes. More because of her heart. But that, the old Chinese lady, how could she see it?

Her heart is a sponge. That, no face/future diviner could guess. Right?


“Who can really distinguish between the sea and what’s reflected in it? Or tell the difference between the falling rain and loneliness?” (The Sputnik Sweetheart – Haruki Murakami)

Summer with a temperature of autumn

It has been raining non-stop for days

It was like the sky trying to rinse her sorrows

In vain.

Hey love, it’s time to say good-bye

I don’t like my love for you these days.

This love brings no positive emotions.

I don’t mind negative emotions or suffering.

I don’t mind pain as long as it can transform into something that I can make good use of.

Instead, this pain is completely useless.

I want my love

To make me laugh in the sun

Smile in the bus

Fly in the sky.

These last few days, it never happened.

My love right now is just a grey stone, sucking all my energy.

But don’t worry

You can have it all.

In one shot

Or in small doses

I won’t take any of it back.

Do whatever you want with it.

Take it, consume it, waste it, throw it away.

My love is all yours.

That damn strong but poisonous love.

It’s just me.

I don’t want my love anymore.

My love and me:

We have split.

We are done.