How close to any thing could my heart stay ? For today may be and tomorrow lost memory...
The wind blows on my lonely soul, red and blue, red and blue again. How reliable are the sweet words ? Did you already forget you gave them to me once ? Are they still mine when I commit the sin of writing about them ?
I mistakenly believe they last longer on a piece of paper, where you can read them as many times as you wish, until it is a true obsession, until it is meaningless. People write, people die, words escape through the window in the twinkling of an eye. People care, people dare telling you what you mean to them, people disappear, stop talking, stop listening. You disappear. I do.
Writing is a temptation, an appealing mirror. I feel like writing, I feel like I could let every thought going out of my poor tired mind, there, to face the self and tell it how to behave not to be hurt anymore. It becomes fiction. You'll always be hurt in the end, there is no alternative.
Sometimes it is as cold as death. As if I was buried before I even tried to breathe. Of course we know - at least some of us - that everything we do has no signification, that no word can replace the Thing itself. Yet, I'm writing. I can't tell. I won't show. I know too well what they could do to my already-broken heart if they learn who I am inside. Too different from them. Not that I want to be different, but I am, really. I understand now, I'll always be "the strange girl", for everyone. A part of me likes this thought. The other hates it. Again. This emptiness in the already-broken heart. Pathetic. It is growing up inside, swallowing my hope, feeding my frustrations. How can I need to come back to this town in which I felt so small yesterday ? No matter where I go, I'm followed by the red shadow.
Sometimes I wish I was blind and deaf. Then, I could be able to hear the voices I love. Sometimes English sounds like a warm place where I can hide. The only world near "Home", a word which does not even exist in her language. I'm gone. I'm trapped. The pain is driving me crazy. Whatever I can read, see or hear, nothing echoes to this pain. No one. Maybe I can give it a name so that I finally know the disease I'm dying from. "Daughterhood" sounds too beautiful, "Motherless syndrom" could define the feeling of every orphan and I cannot say I know what they suffer from...
Deeper and deeper into the ground. Then up above the buildings. Back to the ground, face it : I'm not an adult, I won't be soon. THE FRONTIER OF MADNESS IS CLOSE, I CAN TOUCH IT.
As far as I can remember, I never asked myself about who I was or why. However, I'm not sure about the answer right now. I know I am a girl. Much evidence - not only physical ones - can prove it. I never ever wanted to be a boy. Actually I think I don't like boys that much, probably because all they are able to give me is inevitably weak. I'm not weak. Nothing in me is weak, I repeated theese words to myself walking alone on the streets of Rennes at night, a bit troubled by alcohol. I've tried to figure out how I could measure the place taken by emptiness at that very moment. Even now I easily remember how painful it was. Emptiness is not supposed to take any kind of place, by definition. Unless it is something else.
Is it confessing a lack of imagination saying everything had already been told except what the self can experience on its own ? I thought men and women were individuals, not genders. I did not want to see more than the physical and cultural differences but maybe I was wrong. To me, the man is the unknown other. The one I can't really talk about. However, isn't a writer supposed to be able to write about things he/she doesn't know ?
I want to write fiction but I'm only right when writing about myself.

No problem, sure you can have it.
"There" she said quietly
Breathing through the violence of his name.
Perfection is to be found in it !
Come on ! They talk nonsense
Nothing I can reach, nothing I can spell.

Once upon a bloody life
I met a familyless someone.
She said "I've always wanted to have a daughter"
How come you never had one ?
Well that's a shame, right ?
Y'all be alone for a lil' while.

T'was but a nurse
Who answered me when I said
The pain won't last long, I'm not worried.
"Life won't last either, you know."
It comes to my mind from time to time
As I'm passing through the years.

How will I ever be able to cure my self,
Whether by chance
I find my way back home ?
Forgetting my wasted youth
With blinding happiness and butterflies
However, I'm no believer.

I'm pretty sure I'll keep writing 'til I'm dead.
I do honestly confess
That there is purple within
It's not all blue neither red
But what would be the colour of it ?
The never ending voiceless cry.

Show no mercy on me !
I'm guilty of whatever you can think of.
If it pleases you, truth is yours
Blame on me your perverted sorrow
Confusion brings back
Both wolf and dog.

Unappropriate terms, please reformulate

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