Note to Self (50) Note to the Big Apple (2d version)

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The sewer smell from the underground immediately reached my nostrils as I stepped outside of the building where my office was located. It was an early night, and the sky, by exposing its black emptiness, reminded me that I didn’t see the sunset today. I always stayed inside, and I didn’t have the privilege of having a window.

I walked at a nonchalant pace still too fast to seem relaxed, while looking around in desperate sight of a taxi. When my eyes perceived the rooftop light of a yellow cab a few feet away from me, I sighed of relief, knowing that the wait wouldn’t be too long. This City made me grow impatient. I couldn’t stand being idle. I constantly sprinted after something, in a race for survival, seeking an isolated spot where I could hide from the crowd of tourists that invaded Times Square.

Their stunned looks of deep admiration before the million billboards covering the facades of all the buildings in the area disgusted me the more I felt them swarming around me like a frenetic colony of termites. They would devour me if I didn’t move, and I just didn’t have the time to wait behind them before crossing the street. They took pictures and stopped at every corner, not understanding while I shoved and pushed, forcing my way through them as if I was in the middle of a jungle. My machete in hand, I slashed and cut without mercy, looking for a way out, my eyes gazing at the cab as my ultimate shelter.

When I finally opened the door of the vehicle, I jumped inside and gave the driver my block intersection. In twenty minutes, I’d be safe and sound in the silence of my small East Harlem apartment. I couldn’t wait to be there already.

The car started moving and I quickly saw the crowd of tourists vanishing, their silhouettes becoming smaller and smaller as we entered 8th avenue and sped up through an orange light. I liked when we went fast, protected behind the window pane, my eyes glancing at the beautiful architecture revealing itself on the way. This was now my opportunity to sightsee. At last, I could breathe and relax, comfortable in the backseat, the little television in the separation wall blasting a clip of a late tonight show.

As we kept going uptown, I looked at the people wandering the street, and I dreamt. I knew why I came here, and I knew why I stayed. This City took me as a whole and spit me out as a mere speck of dust, but I still loved her with all my heart. I found her beautiful in every way, despite her stench, her crowd and her relentless pace. When we moved around Columbus Circle and up by Central Park, I couldn’t stop gazing at the green patch hidden in the darkness of the night. The park was gorgeous when very early in the morning, especially after an all-nighter, and by the time I went home, I saw joggers already burning their leg muscles as part of their wake up routine.

The straight avenues never ended, and I saw delis, shops and a million different boutiques on the way. I took mental notes of what was where, because I didn’t notice these things when I walked. I always went too fast, looking ahead and dodging everybody who stood before me.

I felt handicapped when I simply strolled around. That City ate me to the core, programming me to live at the speed of light, because that was just the way she was. She peeled me open like a ripe apple, and would let me dry in the sun if I didn’t catch up.

When I finally reached home, and I turned the key to my door, I knew I found my treasure island. The noise was gone, and the smell had vanished. It was just me now… until I heard the siren of an ambulance blaring a few streets away. That City, my City, never slept, and I’d be long dead before she even started dozing off.

Note to Self (49) Life

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I am a believer, and the modern society molded me to be who I am today. I have my flaws and my qualities. I respect the rules and perform to be the best, no matter what environment I am in; I am always ready to compete. This world has forged me into believing in the superiority of the human intelligence which fabricates stories and makes up scenarios to escape from reality. This world has taken me to a higher level, where I thought my brain cells would stop reproducing but instead, I think my brain got bigger, and despite the drugs I did, I think I even got smarter.

This world gave me power and free will, it led me to take control over my life and think of the earth as a better place, where everybody could find their own way, succeed and be rewarded to the fair extent of their personal investment. This must have been what I thought when I was 12. Growing up showed me that a lot of casualties were left aside on the road to success and that no matter how hard you tried, sometimes life was just a bitch. It did not bring you anything to do your best; it just brought you more crap to deal with in the end. It did not take much to realize that it was all a game and that no matter how well you played by the rules, they always changed. The only constant in all of that is you; as you grow older and experience life, and you realize that it is raw, it is harsh and it hurts.  But nothing feels better than the power of life given to humans and each of them accomplishing what they decide to do with it. It has nothing to do with pride, with anger or remorse, with justice or revenge, nor with love.

Within each and every one of us, we know that we have a purpose. If your purpose is to steal, then so be it. If your purpose is to give, then so be it. In life, nothing could be more real than you looking in the mirror and deciding to take control over your destiny. You have been made one way, you can become what you desire and possibly change to become a better you. I did not stay the same as I was born. I was shaped and molded by my past experiences, my losses, my wins and my disappointments, my lusts and my fears.  It all became normal to deal with them every single day of my life. Why did I exist in the first place? Why did God and my caretakers put me here? Did I deserve to live at this time? Did I make the right choices? Will I ultimately have the right to a second chance if I fail to make what I believe to be my dream come true?

There is no dictionary of childhood dreams. These dreams and creations are the fruit of a childish imagination, sometimes too vivid to realize that anything it can manufacture will simply never happen. But that is what pushes children into surviving their constant growth, their reshaping and their remodeling all throughout their angst ridden teens and then their miserable and pathetic adult life. “I have dreams”, you will hear people say. “I have everything it takes to be that person”, you will hear them relentlessly repeat to themselves. And when the final moment comes, and they didn’t become what they always dreamed of, they just meet their deadly fate. It is nothing bitter and nothing sweet, it is the harsh result of physically and emotionally experiencing life instead of imagining it for hours and years while endlessly staring at a bedroom ceiling. The power of the mind is too strong to be defeated, unless you decide to nuke yourself by smoking too much crack and then you simply lose part of your humanity by becoming a vegetable. Life is harsh as it takes beliefs and passions and crushes them in an instant, creating fear and doubt in every mind. This is the power of life over people and it takes only just as much courage to overcome fear and doubt as it does to breathe for a newborn. It hurts and it stings everywhere, but when it finally happens, it is priceless.

 

Note to Self (48) Another day of boredom

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I looked at the clock, desperately wanting out. I didn’t know why I was here, and what was so important for me to do at this hour… I just wanted to be lazy. Could I leave now?

I thought I had given enough, and it was my time. I heard that it was actually nice outside. Could I check it out for myself before the sun went down? This was not a life. Staying inside while staring at a computer screen all day made my brain hurt. I was getting tired of this routine, the sound of my keyboard keys clicking like little hammers on each side of my head. I hated the contrition I was being forced to endure, every day at the same time, after commuting in a train packed with strangers who felt as miserable as me.

The subway doors closed as I remembered this sound teasing my eardrums… It was the voice of my muse. She missed me so much. I couldn’t believe I was being so selfish. I never meant to hurt your feelings, would you please forgive me? I knew she was crying for my attention, and there was nothing I could do about it. I must go, my love. I must earn a living. Writing was not what would put food on the table. She sobbed even more. I hated feeling so cruel.

Another dawn, another day. As I stepped onto the pavement and walked my way down the block this morning, I forgot about my responsibilities for an instant and I dreamt… I saw myself in a world of words, playing like a child, a huge grin on my rested face. No assignments, no supervisor, just me and a sheet of paper. It felt good to be free at last…

I slowly opened the door, my beautiful vision disappearing as I reached the turnstiles and slammed my card key onto the reader. Another day of boredom, I thought. Two more to go until the weekend. And then the evil cycle would repeat.

Maybe one day, it would finally stop. Forgive me my muse, for I have sinned. I did not forget about you. I just need a bit more time. Be patient, and you’ll be justly rewarded.

Note to Self (47) I just went back in time… and it felt awesome

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The customized LED of my Blackberry started blinking, its bright yellow flash indicating a calendar alert. July 31, 2011: BSB Concert, Nassau Coliseum, 7:30 pm.

I had almost given up hope on ever seeing my idols play live. I was way too young to go to concerts by myself at the time they were really popular. All I could do was dream, sing along their tunes and pray that they did not split a couple of years later. I spent all the little change I had on buying everything that bore their name. I became proud of being one of their admirers, and even if everybody else thought I was far from being cool, I didn’t care. My classmates were all into Nirvana. They laughed at me because of who I was, and what I liked, but despite their best efforts to force me to surrender, I did not flinch. I decided to become the strong individual I am today. Nobody could push me to choose something I did not want. My determination ran through my veins thicker than my own blood. They could all hate me, I knew I would never fit in. I nonetheless subjected myself to their worst reaction after they all united to make my life miserable. I quickly wondered what it would have been like today; with all of us having cell phones, and computers with constant internet coverage. I felt happy that none of Facebook and Twitter existed at the time. Their bullying would have gotten much further had they been able to post nasty comments about me on everybody’s wall.

These thoughts dragged me back in time to a place where I didn’t feel happy. No matter how much I hated their intolerance, I had nowhere to go. I almost got myself into a fist fight because I called a girl a stupid skank. I was not ashamed of anything I said; I meant every word. But at 13, what could I really accomplish with my big mouth and my rebellious attitude? I soon realized that my offensive strategy was flawed. I had to back down and watch my enemies from a different angle. I, therefore, decided to outsmart them by pretending I liked the same stuff they did, so that they would leave me alone at last. Deep inside though, I stayed faithful to my first love. I would never abandon them, and if all it took was for me to start a holy war to protect my freedom of thought, then it was meant to be.

I shut up about my likes and tucked myself in a role that I played to perfection. The mold I created soon became a second skin, and everybody forgot about bullying me. I, however, managed to be fake for a few months at best, until a classmate asked me out one day. I was not interested in dating anybody; my heart was taken, I responded. Whom was I in love with? His name was Nicholas. Nicholas Gene Carter. Who was that? He was one of my idols.

It did not take long for these suckers to come back at me stronger than before. I had learned to defend myself in the meantime. They could do whatever they wanted, I was not scared of them. I stood my ground and let them circle me, until they moved so close I inflicted the first blow to one of them. I kicked right in the crotch, and I escaped. All the courage in the world was, however, not enough to defeat them all. Time would take care of them, I thought, but until then, I was really screwed for a dreadful few months.

When I started high school one year later, I slowly pushed these memories out of my mind. I kept on listening to my idols, perfecting my English to their songs and gradually becoming more of an adult. They did not split for all the years I followed their steps, and they never forsook me, despite me deciding one day that I was too old for this shit and I needed to move on.

I discarded all my posters, my magazine articles and my memorabilia thinking that I was really done with them. I ignored their existence and even forced myself to forget that I liked them a lot when I was a teenager. I buried my memories and hid them very deep in the ground, so they would never come back to haunt me.

How wrong I had been. They reappeared in my life when I expected it the least. First, I found one of their albums in my Itunes music library. I listened to “Never Gone” for two months in a row. Then, I started playing their music videos on YouTube. It truly felt like riding a bike, as if I had never left them. For all this time, they stayed and waited for me to be ready for them again.

The coup de grace happened when I noticed that they were playing in concert on Long Island. Pure coincidence or fate? My heart tightened as I checked the price of tickets… I called my friend and asked her if she was willing to come with me. When she said yes, I pulled my credit card and clicked on purchase. The rest was history.

I screamed at the top of my lungs when I finally saw them for the first time live, after fifteen years of being their fan. I jumped, sang along their old tunes and hugged my friend, as I chugged beer after beer, getting drunker and drunker, the excitement of making a teenage dream come true overwhelming me deep to the core. I never thought that going back in time could be so easy and feel so wonderful. I had last night the most amazing time of my life, and I will forever remember that moment as I looked in the mirror and saw myself, the 13 year old me, smiling and waving, happier than ever. The bullies of my past were long gone; all that remained were the sweet memories of me singing to their albums, knowing all the lyrics by heart, my head full of fantasies heavily involving Nick Carter and his pals, as I developed my own strength, and I discovered my romantic side, staring at the stars and dreaming about a better life in the English language.

For a couple of hours, I went back in time, and it felt truly awesome.

Note to Self (46) Between Dusk and Summer

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This post pays a small tribute to an author whom I admire and have an immense respect for.

Life puts us on paths that we don’t always control; the choices we make, and the consequences of our actions take us to different results, some are good, some are less good, as we keep moving forward, breathing, thinking, simply living. We wake up every day wondering what our purpose is. We sometimes hate what we do, and we try to change, because we think we can be better than what we already are. We don’t always understand what brought us here, and why our guardian angel watches over us in dull moments of inattention and pure carelessness. We can’t decide when our time has come, unless we go for the easy way. We fight, we cry, we struggle, always searching for an exit, as small as it may be, that can take us closer to a peaceful ending.

Death. Horrible, painful, the loss of loved ones never really makes sense. Our heart bleeds as we try to rationalize something that we’re all aware of. It’s the ultimate way out, the one way ticket to another world. It takes years to soothe the heartache, as pain relentlessly lingers in every memory that comes to mind.

I am fortunate enough not to know too much about death. I remember losing my grandmother when I was 8, and when my family attended the funeral, I cried, because everybody cried. I felt sad, even if I did not really miss my grandma. I knew deep inside that even gone, she would always be there, watching over me.

I felt an immense sense of abandonment when I lost my cat. I was 16. My heart still hurts when I remember him. I think that I am more sad now than I was 12 years ago. I didn’t cry when I lost my other German grandma. She was ill, and it made sense to me that her living caused too much suffering. I was 20 when she passed.

I feared of losing my father when he underwent bypass heart surgery. I did not really think of losing him because he was my dad; I was more afraid of fighting over the estate with my half-siblings whom I knew would not spare my mother. I dreaded being responsible for my mother’s sake and taking care of everything in her life, because I just love her too much. I was 21, or 22, I can’t exactly remember. I never thought my father would pass. I had faith that everything would be ok. When we heard that the surgery was successful, I felt immense relief taking me over. I was fine. We were all fine.

My father suffers from type 2 diabetes. As part of his rehab treatment, he got daily insulin injections administered at home. The male nurse who one day came to give him his shot accidentally delivered ten times the normal dosage my father needed. I felt my world collapse around me, as I thought: this was a lethal injection. My father will die. And for the first time in weeks, I cried. Thank God, the nurse quickly realized his mistake and immediately sent my dad to the nearest hospital. My father was fine in the end. He actually got to eat tons of jelly for 24 hours.

The more I grow, the more I dread losing my father and my mother. I became more attached to them as I moved away and they accompanied me every step of the way, supporting me through my relationship and my divorce, giving me enough strength to keep going and to “never drop the ball”.

I read about death and I felt the sorrow one could experience when losing a loved one. It is something I never want to feel, yet, I know it will come my way. I will have to face it, take it and cry my heart out, while always running to score my touchdown, the ball in my hand, my lungs exploding in my chest, as I will sprint for the end zone, never looking back, never regretting anything, remembering all the love, and only the love.

Life is too short to waste time on bullshit. This is to you, to your beautiful words and all the pain that you’ve experienced when losing your dad. Never drop the ball. Stay strong in moments of weakness and always look up high. Your future will be bright, even if you don’t know it yet.

Click here to read “Dusk and Summer” by Joseph A. Pinto

Note to Self (45) I mourn tonight the death of a love

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I knew it would happen, but until it actually did, I never thought it would hit me as hard. I feel empty, my heart tucked on the back of my sleeve, tears rolling on my face, my heart cleansing itself naturally, me not being able to stop the sadness that just invaded me.

I waited for that moment to happen, and prepared myself mentally to face it, but the real deal slapped me and made me feel so little, I swallowed my pride and I cried. I cried so hard, I felt a part of me dying, my head full of dreams telling me that everything would be ok. It is the last battle I have to engage in before I can claim victory. So like a fighter in the ring, I just have to go through it. I’ll take the blows and the broken bones.  Let’s just finish this once and for all.

I’m still incredibly sad. All the memories I share with my executioner are dead. We both turned that page, and I now know how alone I really am.

I mourn tonight the death of a love, the death of a dream, the death of a relationship I thought would last forever. I mourn the love I felt, and all the good like the bad that we shared until we could not stand each other anymore.

It’s official. I’m getting divorced today.

Note to Self (44) I had a dream

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I woke up, my body aching. Did I just have a nightmare? My mind felt numb, as if I was hungover.

I looked at myself in the mirror and examined my face. The skin looked extremely pale, my eyes bulging out of their socket, bloodshot and tired, and my lips…. they were as dry as parchment. What happened to me? I just fell asleep and… I dreamt.

I forced myself to imagine a beautiful story, like I always do. Something meaningful, a fantasy of mine perhaps, where I could escape and create unrealistic endings just because I was the one in control now. I directed and shaped my thoughts like a puppeteer, pulling each string with extreme caution not to spoil everything too fast. I like to take my time with these things so I can enjoy it more, like a good meal or a tasty glass of wine. My imaginary world displayed before my closed eyes like a movie projected at a premiere; the screen reflected every picture so vividly, I felt like I was there, as part of the story.

I invented and reinvented myself, changing the script as I went along, not quite satisfied with the way things were evolving. I pressed rewind when I wanted to watch the same scene again, and fast forwarded when I started getting bored. I paused on the most delightful moments, to absorb them to the fullest, impregnating my subconscious until it bled. My mind never stopped working, my eyes rolling in the back of my head and my eyelids fluttering with so much intensity, my bird felt like battling for survival in the middle of a mighty storm.

My dream took me everywhere I wanted to go; I traveled to imaginary dimensions and met the characters of my stories, talking to them as if they were real… Then, the villain tried to catch me, and I lost control of my thoughts. I felt frightened, helpless, and I wanted out but I couldn’t. I suddenly heard this voice, right next to me, murmuring unintelligible things into my ear. I felt a presence in the room, and my fear worsened as I tried to wake up, but I was dead asleep. Paralyzed in my bed, I sensed that somebody was here, talking to me… I opened my mouth, and I tried to speak, but no words came out.

My dream had taken a turn I did not expect. Now my whole body was in alert, and I didn’t know what to do. I thought I lost my mind…. After struggling for what seemed like an eternity, I finally managed to open my eyes. There was nobody else but me and my kitties. As I turned on the light, the male cat meowed and came closer to me, as if he had felt the same strange presence.

I talked to somebody about it, asking them if they had experienced a similar thing before. They told me that they did, and that it was called “Sleep paralysis”. When I googled it to get more information, here is what I found out:

“A Sleep Paralysis is possibly a hereditary disorder in which one experiences very frightening seconds or minutes of total body paralysis with little respiration and eye movements. A victim in this state feels awake, but he cannot move or speak. In addition to the immobility, the common symptoms include feeling choked or suffocated, hearing strange noises like footsteps and voices, seeing beings or dark shadows, and feeling an existence of someone in the room. Although these symptoms often direct the victims to believe in ghosts, mistransmission of neural signals in the brain causes Sleep Paralysis. When a person sleeps, his brain sends signals to inhibit any muscle contraction. If he comes into consciousness before the brain sends signals to activate muscle contraction, he cannot move his body, and consequently, become “paralyzed”” Sleep paralysis

The article explained that Sleep Paralysis induces visual or auditory hallucinations probably because of anxiety. “A person experiencing Sleep Paralysis feels mortal fear or extreme panic, and hence, the brain generates and releases internal visual or auditory stimuli, producing hallucinations.”

I will definitely use this unique experience in one my stories… I don’t believe in ghosts, but having the clear sensation that somebody was in the room made me feel totally powerless. I still can hear her voice whispering in my ear, and me trying to scream “go away”, but remaining completely speechless.

And this was just a dream…

Note to Self (43) To my executioner

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Placebo blasting in my earbuds, I listen to the lyrics of “Battle for the Sun”, and I drift. I let my mind wander into the cobwebs of my past, my eyes staring at a dot on the ceiling.

I will battle for the sun
And I won’t stop until I’m done
You are getting in the way
And I have nothing left to say

I will brush off all the dirt
And I will pretend it didn’t hurt
You are a black and heavy weight
And I will not participate

Dream brother, my killer, my lover
Dream brother, my killer, my lover

I will battle for the sun
‘Cause I have stared down the barrel of a gun
No falling
You are a cheap and nasty fake
And I am the bones you couldn’t break

Dream brother, my killer, my lover
Dream brother, my killer, my lover

Dream brother, my killer, my lover
Dream brother, my killer, my lover

Dream brother, my killer, my lover
Dream brother, my killer, my lover

I will battle for the sun

I think of you often, looking at the scars that you left on my skin. Your hatred was never enough, and you also had to share it with me. I was your victim, your prey, your tool and your toy, and you played until you wanted no more, like a cat insidiously digs her claws into the bird she just hunted for hours. You gave me no peace, you invaded my dreams, you controlled my life, telling me how to think, how to behave, and how to feel. I was a prisoner of your dementia, a pure soul smeared by the disgust you had for your own self. You pushed me back and forth like a dirty rag, ripping me to pieces, fixing me with glue that you knew would not stick anything together for very long.

You forced me to look into an already shattered mirror, accusing me of being the one who broke it in the first place. Your words, your lies, your empty promises were all you had to offer behind your shiny facade. You screamed I was the one who caused you hurt, when you were the one inflicting it to yourself. Misery loves company, and you decided to take me with you so I could witness your collapse. My heart burst out of anger at you, and I fought you, with my fists and my voice, until I was too exhausted to get back on my feet. You appeared in my nightmares, beguiling me into believing they were only beautiful dreams.

Oh how I cried for you, my beloved. How I howled for you, my jailer. I prayed until my lips sealed dry and I waited for an opportunity to escape. When you shoved me under your blade of horror, I struggled one last time, but I finally made it, back into the sunlight.

You were my dead weight, my burden, the rock that never moved me and never kept me in place, but you are long gone my love. You are forever forgotten for all the sins you committed. You, my executioner, the killer of my affection, are forever dead to me.

 

Note to Self (42) To the world of silence

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I have been walled for too long in a world of silence, where my words stayed shut behind the door to my soul. I pushed them away as if forgetting about them might make them disappear, but they remained, looming, swelling in my wounds like a putrefied disease. I smelt the rotting flesh but ignored all the warning signs. I wanted to keep them to myself, because it was best this way, I thought.

I believed it would save me, not to say anything. I realize now how wrong I have been. These words of fury rushed too fast out of my brain to spill all over my lips, smearing them with horrors I didn’t know existed. All the sorrow and the pain oozed out of my brain and leaked onto my body like a slimy substance that could not be washed off. I tried to hide in my own denial, burying myself under a mountain of lies, but like all appearances, the curtain finally fell and revealed the ugliness that lied beyond my stage.

I fled and disregarded it until I could not bear it anymore. The monster of all my fears was standing next to me, his stench invading my space, finally forcing me to purge the sickness I so often ignored. My eyes opened and I stared in the dark. My mouth started murmuring a prayer, asking for forgiveness.

“My sins are too awful.” I thought. “I’ve caused so much hurt around me.”

The darkness persisted, pushing me to search for an exit. As I touched with my fingers the walls of the chamber where I was kept prisoner, I prayed again. Words continued to pour. I suddenly felt the cold metal of a lock in my hands, but I didn’t have a key. I squatted on the floor and cried, powerless to find a solution to my own misery.

I didn’t want to admit that I had been lying to myself. I didn’t want to pierce through the darkness to reach the light of truth. I lived like this for years, falsely hoping that I would someday bring order to my inner chaos.

I could still feel the coldness of the cage surrounding me, memories hitting me like bricks thrown by an angry mob. “I know I’ve sinned. I know what I’ve done and I feel horrible because of it. Don’t you understand? I am guilty here, I am the bad person. Now kill me. Stop the torture and take me.” I screamed. I begged them not to spare me, but they let me live.

I woke up one day, mentally exhausted and weary, and my body didn’t respond to me. In addition to being totally paralyzed, I felt weak. I could not go on like this anymore. There was no way I could find peace if I kept playing this game with myself. Who was I fooling? I was never meant to experience such hell.

I vomited my words with all the anger I had in me. Then, when I was done, I cried. It took me days, weeks, months to overcome my suffering. I banged at the door of my prison, bruised my legs and my arms, tore my shirt and screamed until I had no voice left. I felt like an animal waking up from a long painful sleep, and I desperately wanted out.

One day, the darkness finally subsided when I opened my eyes and saw the intense brightness surrounding me. The prison was gone, but my pain remained. So I took a pen, and I wrote. I spilled on paper all the words I could not speak, liberating myself little by little from all the lies I told.

My world of silence died before me as my soul slowly healed, every day at a time, still hurting when I remember the voice of my jailer yell in the distance: “You’re a liar, and you’re a cheater. Everything that you say is a lie. Your mouth speaks evil. You should die.” I put my hands on my ears and I keep writing, until the voice stops speaking to me. My journey is not over yet, but I’m gradually getting out, crawling from the darkness into the light, far away from this world of hatred where I shall never return.

Note to Self (41) When writing has always been my life

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I press my mum and dad home telephone number on my Blackberry and wait to hear a dial tone. I let it ring three times, then hang up. Shortly thereafter, my phone starts vibrating, a multitude of colors flashing on my screen. My mum’s calling me back. We have been using that system for years now, five to be exact, since they subscribed to that unlimited international calling service. We speak every day when we can. It feels good to hear their voice, talk to them and exchange ideas. They keep me grounded when I feel that my life has turned to chaos. They reassure me and support me in my moments of doubt. I really don’t know what I would do without them. And that day will come, I know it will, and I dread it tremendously.

Writing. That sneaky demon of mine found a way to wake up and consume my every day routine like gangrene. It’s becoming so much, so much love and hate, struggle and pleasure, my addiction to words is growing by the minute as I chat with my mother and try to forget for a second what my new story is about. I know I need to remain focused but it’s hard, it’s eating my brain and I don’t know how to make it stop. It’s become my obsession. I need my fix. I could write all the time, and I don’t care if it makes sense, I just want to let my fingers run on the keyboard, playing a new composition every time I hit a letter, wandering in fields of gold and sparkling rain as I close my eyes and slowly disappear. My every day problems do not matter anymore as they used to. I leave them at the door of my dungeon and I climb, holding onto the rope of my dreams, peeking at the beaming face watching me from the farthest window… My muse, my princess, is calling my name, she wants me closer, always higher…. and I’m scared of looking down and suddenly falling.

The journey has just begun and I feel already like a junkie on a cloud. I’m begging for the ride to never end, take me, steal my soul and cuddle me until I die there, words pouring over my face like a summer drizzle. I smile and laugh, I must sound hysterical when this happens, but I can’t help it. My demon is insatiable for attention. He jumps and crawls, pressing onto my temples, massaging my neck, guiding my hands as I let him steer my mind into new territories.

My mum keeps talking. She’s telling me about the latest news at home and I barely listen, distracted by the plot I’m attempting to construe to the best of my abilities… “Yes, yes” I keep repeating and it seems to satisfy her. But it’s always there, stuck in the back of my head. This virus has no antidote; I don’t even want to be cured, I love being sick. “When are you going to be done with your novel?” my mum suddenly asks. I don’t know, I’m getting there, but it’s hard right now, it’s really hard.

My mother. She met my dad at a political convention of the Socialist party in Eastern Germany thirty years ago. She witnessed the construction of the Berlin wall. She grew up and learned about oppression. My father was this Jewish French expatriate born in former French Algeria, divorced with two kids, not really looking to remarry. They were never meant to meet. The Eastern block was not open to Westerners at the time. He went there because…. a colleague told him he would have fun, even if he was not socialist, Germans were hot! After several days of indecision, my dad finally went. They’ve been together ever since. Their life started like a good novel. The Eastern German meets a French Jew and discovers freedom. He marries her but she can’t come to France with him yet. She needs to get clearance first. French authorities think she’s a spy and they investigate her. German authorities want to recruit her. I always told my mum to write her story, maybe she will one day. Writing…. It was always meant to be.

“Mum, I have to work on my book, I can’t talk longer.”

“Ok ok,” she says in German. “Kuss Kuss.” It means “Kiss kiss.”

“Kuss Kuss. Tschuess!”

We don’t say “I love you”. We don’t exhibit our love like that, but we know it’s there, right under the surface, boiling to become so hot, it’s overwhelming.

My dad grabs the phone.

“Ok, so be careful out there.” Good Jewish father. Always on the lookout even 3,000 miles away.

“Yes, dad. Kiss. Talk later.”

“Ciao!” he finally says before I hang up.

These words. Always hitting me like a thunderstorm. They never stop, they distract me, they want all my devoted attention, and then what? They make me wait. Nothing comes easy as a writer. My life revolves around them… And the wait never ends. “I’m finally yours! Inspire me!” I yell at my muse. But she stays silent. Another day where I was not productive. Another day where my passion consumes me to a point of no return.

I’m high, always hungry for more. Even in moments of doubt, it always stood by me. My writing, my passion, my life. I remember my mum reading the first novel I wrote when I was 9 and telling me: “This is good. Very good. You should keep going. God knows where it will take you.”

And guess what? I always listen to my mum.