Lost in a no-season’s time

When we met I thought autumn had somehow started. It was a humid day with a temperature lower than usual for the season. But it was sunny with the light of a September sun. The sun was less bright and carried already a yellow tone of early autumnal leaves.

We walked together a few blocks. First the sun was shy, seemed like following you quietly. Then it appeared progressively behind some of the very thin clouds. In the shade, it was probably a bit chilly. But we did not even notice it.

You talked and little by little together with your voice, I could feel more and more rays of sunlight. My eyes were dazzled. Was is the sun or was it your voice? Sparkling with golden particles.

You smiled a few times. And we were back in summer. Definitely. Light breeze seemed to bring more life and warmness to your voice.

I asked you a few polite questions. I heard the music coming from somewhere. Maybe it was from my head. The tunes were familiar. I was quite sure that it was from my head. The tunes were from the songs you sent me at nights. I felt bedazzled.

The air was warmer and so was my skin. I imagined the touch of your skin under the sunlight. Silky soft it would be, with the colors of the summer turning into autumn and of the autumn transforming back into summer. I felt myself overwhelmed by curiosity and sensations of all kinds. The feeling that I had somehow lost the control of myself in front of you was first fuzzy then clear then again fuzzy. I could not define myself and I could not say for sure which season it was. Hardly after one hour being together. It disturbed me to lose the notion of time and seasons while you were there. We just met a few moments ago. You could not have such effect on me. It was insane to feel like exploring your mind and body in a no-season’s time.

I followed you through the city, the one you had known and lived in a long while ago. Streets after streets. You were still a stranger and I still felt lost.

The evening slowly approached us. You were still a stranger. A stranger whose smile I was familiar with by then and whose voice I could recognize under any circumstances. The sun became dim light by the countryside where we decided to stay.

You put on some music. It helped us to disguise our shyness. Sometimes we stayed quiet. Silence was not awkward. Silence had a smell of desire and I would not mind. Close to you, I could feel your body but did not dare to touch. Close to you, I could feel your lips but it was not time to kiss. Close to you, I had stayed in this dream for four days and three nights. With all seasons coming up all together. Days were nights and nights were days. I daydreamt at nights and thought of you even when you were next to me. I could throw away my watch. Looking at it just disturbed me more.

When I left you, I vaguely remembered which day it was. Time was even less important. Memories right away became hopes. Hopes of seeing you again, exploring you again through the sunlight emanated from your eyes and through the drunkenness conveyed by your voice.

You were still a stranger, the one honored by all of my senses and very deep desires. In a no-season’s time.

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Time and what we believe

“I believe you,” she whispers after a moment. “Please find my mind.” (Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World – Haruki Murakami)

You don’t believe in the notion of time

Time is now

Time is the moment you seize and live

I seize the moment and live it with you

You don’t look back

You don’t look forward

I walk with you in no past and no future

You don’t believe that time exists

You believe we had invented time

To keep us prisoners inside

I believe that you exist

I believe nobody had invented you

Better than time and beyond time

You just exist

You talk about time

I talk about you

Time is now

Time is you

Makes sense to what you believe

And to what I believe

Remember as much as you can

Funny isn’t it? I can get almost anything I want. Except the one thing I want the most. (Dance Dance Dance – Haruki Murakami)

I am in his flat.

In the corridor, a white and narrow bookshelf, a lot of books from the French authors.

First room on the left: His desk and a Mac computer. An old armchair for the desk. He needs to change it because his back hurts sitting on it. Again bookshelves with books, DVDs, CDs, video tapes of his next film’s casting, a table in the middle with no chairs. The light comes from outside from a small window. We are on the top floor of an old building. From the window I see some small gardens down there, a store painted in pink, some small houses. Quiet suburb. Small street with no traffic.

The next room on the right: his bed, grey sheet, a small red wardrobe, another grey one. Music, books, some more, I can’t remember the names of all these contemporary French writers. He puts a CD of a Chinese pop band, only instrumental. He puts another CD of Keith Jarrett. Same view from the window.

The kitchen: a small one. The stove just arrived last week. The table is red with white dots. Two white chairs. A set of four green dishes and bowls. A set of three wine glasses. A bottle of French champagne.

The bathroom: white and simple, he puts the usual stuff. His perfume whose name I can’t remember but the smell I can still remember. He never turns on the light because of the noise it makes when the light is on. The heater has a problem. The water becomes very hot. We pay attention to not get burned.

I am 303 miles away. I close my eyes. I am in his flat. I wander between the rooms, looking at the books. I am there. Barefoot on the floor. My bag and small suitcase on the floor. The music is still there. He is somewhere in the other room. Maybe he is preparing a light dinner.

I close my eyes. I am 487.53 km away.

I live with my imagination. It works. I rewind my feelings.

I am still 72 hours late on the present time. I can change my feelings but not the time and space. Alas.

I did the counting

Our love was all about trains

And other lands

Once I had crossed two countries

Three borders

Eighteen hours of train

Within less than two days

To get to know you

And to be with you

Forty-five hours and seven minutes

To be exact

To love you

In such a rush

Was simply not possible

I can only

Love you

When I can lose track of time

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.

Imagination 1

Though imagination and she are not good friends,

Lately she let herself carried away by some pleasant thoughts.

There are things she likes to imagine:

How would he look like in a few years?

Would his blond hair darken with time?

Would the tiny wrinkles around his eyes still smile at her gently?

Would his angelic face sadden with lived experiences?

Would his soft lips still talk to her with golden and delicate words?

Would his agile fingers still have the touch of silk?

What would time do to him and his soul?

Then she wishes she would never need to imagine him that much.

Because he will still be there in a few years in flesh and blood

There would be no mystery to such future.

She could then tell for sure.

With her eyes closed

That he stays the same

And like a very good wine

He tastes exquisite

Over time.