Years passed, and the waiter in a pink uniform finally learned my name — this time in a completely new place, wearing a completely new uniform. I am very inattentive to names and, sometimes, faces, but I always remembered him because he was always there whenever I was shedding crocodile tears on a cold shoulder.
A fun fact: he never remembered me, fortunately, because that part of me is gone forever.
The thing is, this new place feels safer than the one we used to go to and make up at.
Here, I am completely and simply myself. And maybe, logically, happier.
Geometrically sharp wooden lights, Campari-orange cushions, and creamy walls — an interior designed for someone like me, who is overly sensitive to light. Although coffee awakens my anxiety, I ordered one cappuccino and a pour-over. But why?
It’s 19 degrees inside this space and 0 degrees inside my body — coldness has reached my bones.
I once had an unpublished article titled How Can Nostalgia Affect Us?.
In fact, writing and expressing my feelings on that topic never set me free from asking myself the same question over and over throughout the years.
“Elle y a vécu quatre ans — pas les meilleures de sa vie, mais les plus importantes : ce furent des années de résistance, de reconstruction, de renaissance.”
—
“She lived there for four years — not the best years of her life, but the most important ones: they were years of resistance, reconstruction, and rebirth.”
Guillaume Musso : The Apartment in Paris
I believe in signs. The number 44 has a weird habit of following me into new spaces, and unpredictably, I find myself waiting to see it on a building in some old or new city or on a receipt in a bank.
The bearable and carefree life on the island lasted for four years, and in October, it will mark four years without it. Naturally, I see it as a sign to leave again.
You know, once every four years, I face reincarnation.
That’s my unwritten law.
A song playing in the background now:
“Someday you will go
To streets we don’t know.”
I told you — I believe in signs. They are everywhere.
And now, “When You Were Mine” by Joy Crookes is playing.
Again, I told you.
I still live in spaces where I never belonged.
I no longer believe in physical belonging, whether it’s to a space or a person.
I’ve written more than 15 songs in less than seven months after three years of being creatively stuck.
Yes, I am someone who overanalyzes, self-deprecates, and is never satisfied in my work life, while in my artistic life, I am down-to-earth and accepting. It feels like impostor syndrome will never leave me.
Yet, Simon found the writer in me long before I discovered it myself.
“Just write more.”
“What should I write about?”
“Life. Everything that happens.”
I would add, “Everything that happens for a reason, and more often, without any reason.”
You know, I never let my emotions win during my 8-hour shift, and they often crash into me after 6 PM. In the end, I can firmly state that the real me is the one fully covered by the tsunami waves of unprocessed emotions.
Do I go with the flow, or do I fight against the tsunami?
The more I dig deeper, the more I ask myself, every single morning:
“Is this high level of self-awareness a blessing or a curse?”
What do you really think?
