The old brag of my heart.

A slice of cake for the sad little owl.

I spent three quarters of an hour gripping my pen, trying so hard to produce the right words, but still unsure of what to write. Things have been confusing to me lately and all I have are memories so hazy that only abstract pieces of art can make them tangible. Forgive me for trying to romanticize everything, including loneliness, misanthropy and the rest of my negativity. There is nothing noble in suffering. It took me years to realize that.

Last night, I thought of the whole situation right before I went to sleep. How we spat out words, raw and bleeding. How I tried to turn away from your face whose eyes make me want to let go of my anger. I was indignant and you were upset. I have not come to a conclusion. 

I still do not know what to say. Words have always abandoned me when I needed them the most. You, on the other hand, had lots of things to speak of. But you held back. Said it wasn’t the right time, that it wouldn’t do good for me considering my present state. It makes me wonder if things become half-real when we start walking on egg shells. Makes me think if this is the end I’ve been setting myself up to. 

I still have not found a conclusion. An impasse: maybe that is what we are. 

(Until one of us gets brave and manage to cut it all off.)

I will write my way to contentment, following how the sunlight finds its way to our windows. 

I.

When I was a kid, I engaged in balloon flying contests. The mechanics: the balloon that flies the highest is the winning one. I hated it. Balloons aren’t supposed to leave you behind for greater heights. 

II.

Perhaps it was because I spelled ballon as “baloon” in my 3rd grade spelling exam.

III.

Maybe I wasn’t supposed to let go even when I’m asked to.

I really want to cuddle right now.

Tu n’as pas de place ici. Tu n’as pas de place ici. Tu n’as pas de place ici.

Do not go there, restless mind. Do not go there.

The answer is love—my darling—but I’ve long forgotten the question.