“This is love: to fly towards a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.
First to let go of life. Finally, to take a step without feet.”–rumi
Thank you all for remembering my birthday I read every word with a winged heart and I’m grateful for all the love showered upon me on this day and everyday that follows.
At the end of the day the fact that we have the courage to stilll be standing is reason enough to celebrate, no?
In P.Coelho’s words: I wish you enough.
Enough sun rain happiness pain gain loss and enough hellos to get you through the final goodbye.
Comme une danse. Dans une ville où j’attends revenir.
You can tell by now, that I obviously miss Paris a lot.
You like to ask me how am I coping so far, after-all a year has already gone by and I should have settled into an old familiar rhythm by now.
Isn’t it?
No. Not really.
My heart aches for Tokyo. It is often too painful to talk about Tokyo. And that is why I prefer to sing about Paris. Then I don’t spiral into the abyss of melancholic yearning.
Paris is a love story, a romantic-comedy.
Tokyo on the other hand, is a good old Kurosawa film noir. .
Never let me go.
Where I used to wake up, grab a melon-bun and a cuppa coffee and ran to class every morning.
Where I got lost in my thoughts on the streets of Takadanobaba trying not to bump into fellow cyclists or worse, old ladies with bags of groceries.
Where I was small but I occupied the city with a soul that soared, wholehearted I loved and I breathed.
When I close my eyes in bed every single night, I think about my Tokyo this way, while I bid goodnight to this almost-perfect life here in Singapore.
I miss not knowing what is going to happen next.
I miss the walks in the park in the crowded streets of Shibuya in the quiet back streets of Jiyugaoka.
I flew back to Paris. I dived back in time.
All that was needed to be done, and then there was more.
You reflected that I had gotten better. It was not all that bad, no?
No it was not. Nothing was all that traumatic.
Bidding farewell. Losing. Falling. Hurting.
I close my eyes. I don’t think. I drift.
If someone searches for me, I am still here.
The part of me that stays true, at least.