I know I say this every time I go home and have to speak French for a long time, but it still feels weird. I am constantly surprised at how much my mother tongue feels foreign in my mouth and to my ears.
went through a 14hrs bus ride from Gaspé to Montréal. Waiting three hours for my train to arrive so it can take me to Ottawa…this is the less fun part of travelling. Also: I hate buses, but trains are awesome.
Also: a guy asked me if I had a dollar for him. He called me princess (“Hey princess, you wouldn’t have a dollar for me, would you?”). I said no, even though I probably have $10 in change in my bag. Don’t call me princess asshole. Ugh.
You know, there isn’t much comfort in knowing that the bed sheets have been cleaned and smell like sunshine and soap, if I cannot hold your hand and kiss your shoulder while we lay between them. Dirty sheets at least have the advantage of smelling of you.
crab meat & garlic buttered-fingers ; the waves crashing, crashing crashing ; breaking every resolves ; the moon is too bright ; words are meaningless ; I don’t know anything ; I will always love him ; I forgot how to spell her name ; lighthouses are the perfect houses ; the sea is unforgiving ; seagulls never give a fuck about anything ; reading is better than almost anything except maybe living ; drifting is a state I like to be in ; keep notes tucked in my shoes ; I always drink too much wine ; I don’t like my name.
If I could write a whole story about people swearing at/with each other while telling absolutely nothing of importance, I would. I like swear words more than any other kind of words. They’re beautiful.
So. Here’s the deal right? I write words and I write them together. One after the other in neat little lines, in neat little blocks, in neat little thoughts. So I do this, right? I do this with ease or not, I do it well, or not, I don’t know. I never really know anything, and whatever, it’s not really relevant right now. So I do this, for I don’t know how long. Because, fuck, what else would I be doing? And I look over the words and I want them to mean something. I desperately want them to be more than lines and blocks and black and white and whatever the fuck else words are.
Except, I don’t know, and so they don’t know and what does that even mean? How do you build a story and how do you make them count?
I don’t want them to be empty, but how do you make them full if they’re only tiny little lines, full of angles and spaces, on a flat ocean. There’s just a big pool at the bottom of the page, where the meanings go to die. Horrible, painful deaths I hope, because they fucking deserve it. And I don’t know, and sometimes I don’t fucking care. I feel like one of the Danaides, forever trying to fill something full of holes, forever trying to find meaning, to write something meaningful, to tell something, just something, anything, it doesn’t even have to matter, it doesn’t. And why am I even writing this? It doesn’t even make any sense.
Thank you for letting me stay in your house. Thank you for feeding me. Thank you for paying for this trip. But actually, I just want to sit by the sea, go to the national park, read, listen to audiobooks, and type stories on my laptop. And I don’t want to talk to any of you if I don’t have to.
I knowingly let myself get a sunburn today. I think I wanted to see if I could burn. Also, I couldn’t bring myself to care.
I was sitting high on slated grey rocks facing the ocean. The air full of salt. The seagulls flying and dipping. The tides coming and going. Why would I care about anything else? Why should I? Let my skin burn, I had bigger things to think about.
What do you do when the one you love doesn't love you back? Or you don't think he does? But you're just so convinced that they're the one for you, that they're the one you could see yourself spending the rest of your life with because there is absolutely not one in the world like him. How do you muster the courage to tell him and not fear his rejection?
You’ll always fear it. It’s normal. The thing is not to stop being afraid, but to do things EVEN THOUGH you’re afraid.
Sometimes, you just have to take a risk.
It’s not easy. It will never be easy.
You have to decide whether you want to try and see, or wether you want t leave things as they are now. The thing is though, you won’t know how he feels until you actually ask him and he tells you. Never try to guess or pretend you know how someone else feels, let them tell you.
I’m leaving on a trip with my mum and brother to go see family. I haven’t been there since 1998. But it’s by the sea, and I am most looking forward to that. I’ll go read and maybe write by the water. I’ll visit the national park and walk the trails. I’ll take pictures. I’ll look at the ocean and think hello old friend, I haven’t seen you in a while, how is you all-consuming life? I’ll eat tons of fish because it’s cheap there and I’ll probably get really really annoyed at having to make conversation with family members that I never really see and answering their questions. Hopefully the ocean will make up for it.
I think about stories a lot. I think about telling stories. I think about how they are everywhere and all-powerful. I think about how they flood me and leave me for dead, and how they teach me how to breathe underwater when I think I am sinking, when I think I have hit the bottom of the ocean.
And then I think about telling stories some more. And I think about how difficult it is. And I think that it shouldn’t be so difficult, that it shouldn’t be like climbing a mountain while naked in the middle of winter with no food and only a small rusted knife to fend for yourself, the North Wind cackling over you. Mocking.
And then I think that it’s not the stories that are difficult. It’s the words. Stories are always around and they are small or big, tangible and insubstantial at the same time. But ever-present and ever-growing and ever-there.
So so. I don’t hate my appearance, but I’m not overly fond of it either. I think I’m just plain really. Which is okay, I don’t have this desire to be a great beauty or anything. Most of the time, I don’t care about it too much or don’t think about it. There are certain things I don’t like about my body, certain things I hide, but I deal with that and I try not to linger on the thoughts too much. Though sometimes, I struggle. Like everybody I guess. Though other times, I think I look quite alright. *shrugs*
There are more important things to think about, and I try to think of those things instead of worrying about how I look.