Dans un café

In a café. That’s where it all started and it all ended: poor Mademoiselle Charlotte had been left alone once again, sat on the narrow and uncomfortable couch, facing that rounded glass filled with a high-alcoholic drink. She didn’t even remember what she had ordered but it didn’t matter anymore because she didn’t care; and she hated herself for it. She had always been the “special” girl, the “different” and “unique” one. Also “lunatic” and “insane”, but she preferred taking them as compliments: at least she was not like any other woman!

But now, sat on that wretched couch, facing her forgotten drink, Mademoiselle Charlotte was just like any other person in that café: lost but not confused, tired but not exhausted, angry but not evil. 

She didn’t care about anything going on anymore and pretended not to notice even when a gentleman sat just next to her, with a pipe between his lips, a bushy and dingy beard and wearing a wrinkly bowler hat.

Madame… are you all right?”

Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît.” She said, keeping on looking at the void.

Desolé. You look suffering. Are you sure everything is fine?”

Non, monsieur. Nothing is fine, but I would be surprised otherwise. Would you leave me alone now?”

The man stood up and angrily mumbled something about how her supposedly unsatisfactory intimate life was not a pretext for her to be such a hateful and unfriendly mademoiselle. Pas vraiment française.

Charlotte sighed and went back to her thoughts, which weren’t actual thoughts, but she’d rather desire them to be. She, educated and cultured, needed to think all the time. She was different.

Was she, actually? Julien, her last lover, had abandoned her just like he did to any other woman he had. That made her one of the many. They had met in that classy café a couple of hours before, he had told her those cliché excuses and, after an hypocrite kiss on her cheek, he left. She hated herself and she hated him. He made her realise that, after all, she was not so special.

@layalke 🐍

I miss us

This is a tribute to all those friends which aren’t so anymore. Feel free to think about whoever comes up to your mind, I’ll try to be the less specific I can.

▶ Stay with me – Sam Smith

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

Dear man,

I’m writing this knowing you won’t probably even read it. I don’t think I’d like you to, because otherwise I’d be talking to you in person and I wouldn’t be obliged to write. I’m writing because, you know me, that’s what I do when I’m upset. And now, I really am. The reason, and, careful, that’s not a fault, is you.

Yes, we made peace and apparently we’re fine, but we’ve always known we won’t ever be as close as we used to. 

Do I miss you? Oh Gosh, that’s a hyperbole. I miss our hugs, our sweet kisses on the cheeks, our songs, our train tickets, our silly/cool photos we managed to take, our houses, yours and mine when you’re in it. I even miss your parents and your siblings, I miss the food your mum cooked and your dad’s car rides, I miss playing with your little sister. I miss our dates, I miss calling you at 4 am of the test’s day just to revise together that one subject, I miss talking about anything and everything and I miss staying in silence in your presence. I miss holding your hand and put mine and yours in my jacket pocket because it’s cold outside, I miss texting you everyday. I miss us.

Am I angry at you? I… I don’t know. I think not, I’m angry at how we both acted when it came to solve this situation. I think you are as well.

This letter is not a disperate scream for help, mainly because I’ve moved on and become close to other people, therefore I’m not alone. I don’t think I’ll be able to start it all over again, but believe me when I say that I do miss the idea of you I used to have.

I’ve just decided I’ll add my favourite photo of us because, despite what I said at the beginning, a part of me desires you to read this “open letter” and come back to me and hug me and tell me that from now on, everything will be like it used to be for real. But it won’t. And all I’m left with are my words and the vain hope that you’re happy; it doesn’t matter anymore what you’ve done or what I’ve done, now it’s just our feelings and our memories. And I want to thank you because, for a while, you taught me what true friendship meant. 

Yours truly, Miss Deli

@layalke 🐍

I can’t write

▶ Writing’s on the wall – Sam Smith

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

Being told once I’d got a bad writing was not a big deal. Being told twice started to get on my nerves; then the third, fourth, fifth and so on were a little bit of a bitter pill to swallow, especially because I know that the world of writing is my world, the world I belong to. The logic and reasonable part of my brain has always told me not to focus on the people who send me such bad vibes, but you’ll understand it when I say that it’s really hard.

A short time ago, one of my teachers told me: “If you didn’t write interesting texts, I wouldn’t even read your essays”. Well, ok, thank you?! What am I supposed to say?

Lately this has effected my creativity in a way I didn’t think was possible. I consider myself to be quite a calm and sensible person, therefore that logic and reasonable part of my brain I quoted before is the one I trust and use the most; but, as childish as it is, I cannot avoid to take this personally. 

I’m trying my best, believe me, mostly because I know that my writing could affect the mark of my essays, but I don’t feel motivated at all. I like my tiny and uptight writing, and you know me, I’m not going to change something I don’t mind about myself just because a few people do

At the end of the day, I am the one who stays alone with my words only, with those words that are apparently so hard-criticized but save me, in a way; when the words you write are what helps you go through the day without a mental breakdown, you get so attached to them that you consider them to be a part of yourself, part of who you are and who you will ever be. Now you understand how important this blog is to me; it represents my freedom when it comes to writing.

Let me write what I want, let me write as I want; I’m not asking for anything else. And, if you won’t, I will anyway. 

@layalke 🐍

Woman in the Sun

A Sun ray woke up Eloise. She frowned and turned her face the other way, under her pillow. She knew he had left, she felt his void next to her, but didn’t dare open her eyes. She didn’t want to find that out, she didn’t want it to be true.

Eloise had always been like that: instead of facing her problems, she preferred to stop caring about them and just pretend they didn’t even exist in the first place. That wasn’t really a problem, but surely she would rather like to be in a different situation.

The Sun out of her window kept kissing her cheeks, persistent and unwavering. Eloise couldn’t do anything but grumble and eventually stand up. 

Once on her feet, she finally faced the open window and the light that came from there. Hypnotically, she smiled and, step by step, got closer to it.

What she saw, why she suddenly smiled and what at… well, we shall never know. Our view stops right here; the camera that’s been recording the whole time won’t move anymore. We are left with the view of her unmade bed, that sunshine ray which cuts the room in a half and, supposedly, takes away Eloise. But actually, we don’t know what happened next and we never will. Eloise, that as beautiful as inconsciously fearful and fragile girl; Eloise, her golden hair and her olive skin which seemed to reject those kisses, wherever they were from; Eloise, that once in her lifetime, had perhaps learnt to face her problems.

@layalke 🐍

The melody of the night

They had been walking for a very long time; neither of them two realised they had spent two hours of their lives just walking side to side, with their arms around each others’ waist.

They both couldn’t be older than 60 years each and their love had lasted for about fourty years. But, if you asked them, they would tell you that just as those two hours spent walking felt like a couple of minutes, the same went for those four decades they had decided to face together. 

The sparks of the rising moon enlightened her features. Silently and calmly, a tear was brought to her cheeks. He took her face in his hands and wiped away that tear. She closed her eyes and put her hands on one of his. Don’t you cry, my love – he said. She swiftly nodded and pretended to put herself together.

When I’m gone, don’t you cry – she said. He smiled and wrapped his long and mighty arm around her; he wanted to protect her, he did want and if he could, he would have given his own life to save her. Still, that’s not how it works. The victims are randomly chosen and, if you’re one of them, the only thing you can do is to agree with this judgement and hope you’ll be taken away as late as possible.

Once in their unlucky lives, that evening seemed endless. Every single light, shade, reflexion… it was all contributing to create something which he would later grab onto. Her sweet brown eyes, her pale face which still found the strenght to blush when she was with him, her pretty slim lips. But he preferred focusing on the colourful leaves on the trees and the welcoming ground they had their feet on and the delightful mood she was able to give birth to. That’s all he would be left with, eventually.

@layalke 🐍

Somebody stole my bike

▶ Car radio – Twentyone Pilots

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

When, on the morning of Saturday 8th April, I went to the bicycle parking space next to my school and found out that my bike had been stolen, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I found my chain and its padlock in the basket of a bike which was near mine. A small bit of the padlock had been literally cut off, and so that day, all I went home with was just my chain and that broken padlock.

I didn’t cry. Why should have I? I just got really mad. I was furious, to say the least.

I went home then, with that chain in one of my hands. Does saying that I imagined choking the thief with it make me a sociopath? I don’t care if it does. That bike represented my mean of transport, everything I could count on when moving in my own city, what I used to ride twice, if not more times, everyday.

Maybe I’m not supposed to kick up such a fuss, people are always being stolen something and, in most of cases, it’s something much more expensive than a bike, but again, I don’t care. I don’t care at all because I can save a little money for a few months and with less than €100 I’ll get away with another one. So money, I couldn’t care less about it now.

The thing is that my bike was actually my dad’s bike. Being stolen that bike feels like being stolen a part of him. That’s what makes me angry the most. Not the money, not the broken padlock, not its now useless key. It’s him. It’s being taken away the handlebars he used to touch with his soft and big hands, the pedals he used to put his feet on, those feet who helped me mark the beginning of the trail towards who I am today. I feel like a part of me is gone forever and this does frighten me.

This photo was taken a few months ago, when I was parking my bike in my garage and I noticed that the chain had the shape of a heart.

@layalke 🐍

All the stories that we could’ve told

▶ One day – Asaf Avidan

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

If the year were a house and the days were the bricks, today would be the heaviest to carry. I began to feel this weightness over a month ago; “Damn, 10th April is so close”. The fact is not that today I’ve woken up and remembered just after a while; I’ve been waiting for today for such a long time, just as I do every year, just as I’ll do for the rest of my forever empty life. No victimism here: I’ll always feel a void, a blank by this point of view.

My heart is becoming drier and drier. No more tears, not as often as before, at least. Does that mean I’m overcoming it or I’m just slowly stopping to care about it? I just wonder how can something so big make you feel incomplete and, still, almost indifferent. It’s the worst feeling I’ve ever had to bear, believe me. 

I don’t think about you all the time, but when I do I wish I hadn’t. It’s as if you used to have a flower, the most beautiful flower of your entire garden, and someone just stole it from you. The less you think about it, about what you miss and will never have back, the better you feel, don’t you? That’s why my mind is not always on your image; not because I’m trying to ignore or avoid you nor because I’m willing to forget you, it’s just for my mental health’s sake. 

I know you won’t blame me but I needed to explain. That’s the whole truth actually: I need to explain. I need someone who’ll want to listen to our story because they’ll want to understand it, because they will want to understand me. I’m looking for someone who’ll take my hands and whisper: “I want to know you through him and vice versa”. If I find that person, that means they’ll love me just half of how much you used to and I’ll be the luckiest. 

I’ll be waiting for you, just as you’ll do for me. We’ll meet again, I promise. Our story isn’t over yet

@layalke 🐍