I'm not sure you guys all know this about me but I write. I've always written but I've never really shared anything I wrote with anyone. I'm not even sure it's worth a read. But I love it. I need it. It's natural, and everyday in the most common situations sentences will come to my mind and I need to write them down. I write in french most of the time, obviously, but lately I've been writing in english a little bit. I'm not writing the same kind of texts as I do while using french, but still, I like them. Quite a bit.
What got me really started is spoken poetry, slam poetry, spoken words, whatever you want to call it. I never really got interested in it until a few months ago. But I think I'm in love. I'm in love with so many of the talented and inspiring poets I found online and I'm in love with their words, so different and unique, in love with the emotions and strengh or weakness in their voice as they deliver their poems.
I'm not sure, but I could even want to try it. I'm not sure I could do it anyway. I kind of want to try to do something about these poems I have in store on my YouTube channel. But I'm really shy and I don't know if those words are worth anything. Well words are always worth something.
But because of english not being my first language it adds more anxiety and apprehension to the usual fear any "writer"(oh really) has when it comes to share those pieces of themselves.
Here is one of the poem I wrote, I wrote it today in the subway, on my bed and on my bathroom's floor.
You know this feeling right before the end of summer or winter when you feel like it's impossible that the sun will either disappear or show up? For girls it's like the idea of tights in august doesn't make sense anymore and to think that you once wore a tank top, in mid January looks more like some sort of delirium than a fact. But in the end it always happens again and again and again. Seasons change and tights become the obvious and natural morning choice after looking through the window, and it's so hot at noon that you almost wish for a day of snow, just one, because even your skin feels like it's an excess layer. Right? No matter how much we forget, doubt or can't imagine it, seasons always change. So when you left I thought it would be just the same. What? A day without you, or rather an infinity of seasons without you? No way it couldn't be. It was as impossible to imagine as the minus 3degree celsius of Paris while being in Greece mid July staring at the neverending blue. But I had to admit it, I did freeze to death a few months later running to the metro station wondering if blue wasn't a color I had made up. So that would be just the same for you. There would come a day when the memory of you would be as fragile translucent and distant as an hallucination. I'd just have to wait for it. And that's what I did. But clearly my climate must be fucked up because I'm yet to take off the coat of your whispers the scarf of your eyes embroidered with your dimples, the gloves of your midnight secrets the how so soft sweater of your laughter and the cashmere love you once covered me with. They say seasons are late sometimes. I gave your winter a few days, a few weeks, a few months to melt and go away but now I'm counting years. That's not what I call late or a momentary imbalance either. But that's fine! so be it! Let it be rain and wind let it be snow and frost for I know that no sun anyway will be as warm as you. No little dress as comfortable as you. No shade as enjoyable as the cold I feel on this few cms of skin that sleeves don't cover and make the rest of the body realise how safe and protected it is. I choose the bite of your cold to the caress of any warmth, the blue of my nails to the one of any flowers that could bloom and if my lips are chapped it's still better than untouched. I really thought that spring would come. I was picturing this summer day, the sun so bright it was reflecting on every surface, the scent of sand and the sound of waves, the air so warm I could feel it even without any breeze and far away, so far away from me, the vague recollections of what winter was like. Of what life with you was like, and what it meant to me. Like fractions of another life I couldn't reach anymore, something that had been, but how exactly? that I couldn't tell. Truth is I can still smell you and hear the echo of the door you slammed. I can still see you perfectly even in the dark, I can still touch your fingertips on the last objects you held. You're nothing of a ghost other than you keep haunting me.
And here are a few of the videos I particularly loved during my last night session of videowatching!
I hope you enjoy. Both my text and those amazing videos! It would honestly mean a lot to me if you were to read it and let me know what you think, one can only improves this way right?!
