I’m on a first name basis with personal failure now. We know each other well, he and I. We have long late-night conversations; I gesture angrily, he smirks. He mocks, I try to kick him. Some days, I catch him on a good day, and he tells me, “This will only make you stronger”, to which I’ve started asking, with my heart hurting a little bit, “Aren’t I strong enough, after all you’ve put me through? Enough, enough now”
Then he goes back to smirking at me.
I’m not letting him win this time. I keep myself so busy filling up the gaps my most recent failure brought, I have no time to sleep. Id rather not sleep. Because being busy, being busy being happy, means I’m good. Tired, but good. Gooder than good, even.
Now its scribbles on paper, doodles on pocket-sized moleskines. Chapped lips puckered up for a kiss hello (and goodbye). Sitting on benches, sipping mulled wine and biting into waffles. Quietly opening doors at 3-something am, to enjoy beautiful flickering pink and turquoise candlelight, “white wine” and glorious gauloises. Watching wine bottles wallowing in winter winds on the windowsill. Being carried in long lean arms past the accordion player, giggling helplessly and forgetting cold feet and colder hearts. Mommycuddles and Daddyteasing. Red and raw skin, happy and perfect whiskers. Cosy rooms, that “smell of smoke and a nice something else”. Gazing lovingly at vintage lanterns, remnants of the yayest brightest Ms. R weekend, who turned all the blue and grey into red and yellow. Cold noses buried in warm necks, sitting on wood steps listening to jazz and john. Standing on tiptoes on cold cobbled streets, twinkly lights above and around and all over. Such-a-chut-ing and You’re-a-fool-ing; never getting overdone. Loving RHCP all over again; now they’re associated with the breathlessness of yayness, of a heart skipping beats.
I’m taking a look at the stars in my head fields of space.
And smirking back at the asshole. Screw you, personal failure.