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I’m sleepless in Beirut.

For these past two days I have been really inspired and consequently, I want to be left alone with myself. When I’m in creative mode, I am my own best company.

However, every now and then I would find myself thinking about people, people who are dear to me.

Belle. Belle is one of those people I consider to be a true close friend. If I do not see her for more than two days, I start missing her. Sometimes, I miss her the moment we say goodbye. We keep in touch when we are too busy with our lives; she is the kind of person I can send a random thought to without even considering the context. It has been a week since I last saw her, but thinking about her keeps her close.

Hugg. Hugg is also one of those people who I only need to think about to feel their presence. I would usually see him, even if I have a lot of things going on, but this time, I am pushing our meeting further and further into tomorrow. As I’ve mentioned previously, I want us to stop our sexual relationship, but today, while watching L’Auberge Espagnol, I found myself thinking about him. That movie has an immense effect on me; it wakes me up to the world. I was exhausted when I got home, but I could not allow myself to sleep early.

Hugg called me during the movie. I wished for him to be sitting next to me and experiencing Barcelona, because he was, I quote, “having the worst month in his life”. Poor baby, he should be right here with me and not on his own, suffering.

Seeing him there right in front of me, would materialize the consequences of my resolution, and I’m still too weak not to push it to the back of my mind. I can easily imagine myself thinking, “This will be the last time, just for “closure’s” sake.”

Botticelli. I still feel the impulse to appear on his doorstep (with a quick announcement of my intending to do so before, of course!), but as soon as I imagine seeing him, I immediately pull myself back. The last time we spoke, he was really selfish. How? How could he accuse me of being ungrateful? How? I can’t seem to stop being angry with him. Does he not remember at all how I was? He was the one who had expressed his appreciation of how I would “respect his time and freedom”. He didn’t know many women who were capable of that. But perhaps that’s not what men really need? They love to be fussed over, taken care of, adored. I, however, would always ask for his “permission” to do so.

“Are you home? Are you busy? Do you mind if I pass by?”

It was always a “pass by”. It was light. It was digestible.

Nevertheless, I need to see him. I have something borrowed and so has he, important things. I have something I need to say to him. I need to have us laugh and hug again. I was always the champion of avoiding conflict and confrontation; a skill that can sometimes turn against me.

Gymnase. I haven’t had news from him since the summer I met him. That was three years ago. This morning, I received a poke from him. When I saw his name, everything came back to me. I was back in Paris, sitting in the dark living room, watching Destricted, waking up at the crack of dawn and taking the metro to Montmartre, walking the empty streets, seeing Paris stretch and yawn, having coffee at Les Deux Moulins, saying goodbye, saying hello, bisou, salut, t’es fou. He was the lightest being I had ever met. He was also the first man who openly talked about his homosexual tendencies. I was fascinated.

But most of all I remember his weightlessness; it was in everything he did. He didn’t walk, he floated. He didn’t talk, he spoke. Even when he would move suddenly, everything else around him slowed down. His sketches were also very unique in their style; simple, thin black lines that seemed to be there only because you were looking for them.

He left Paris before I did. It was a sad morning. I found him in the kitchen, making coffee for the two of us. We sat and drank in silence. I was angry with him for leaving me. We had only known each other for three days, but they had been filled with magic. I got dressed and was at the door, ready to leave. We hugged for a very long time. He had a body that felt too small for his age, too soft and too fragile. I couldn’t imagine him in those underground gay clubs he told me about. To me, he could only ride on clouds.

When I returned that evening, he was already gone. On my bed, I found a CD with a yellow post-it on it. I still have it on my desk.

Tu trouveras plein de choses dans le dossier “gymnase”. Prends soin de toi! :-) gymnase.

His handwriting too is afflicted with his lightness, his unbearable lightness of being. There! That describes him perfectly.

I also have the ticket for the “Rocky Horror Picture Show” he had taken me to. And I have the letter he wrote me. They were the most beautiful words anyone had ever given me.

Tu es apparue a un moment ou la tendresse se fait ressentir.

Tu as un regard particulier a la vie…un regard doux sur les barbares. Sans voyeurisme, tu preleves la lumiere, une meche de cheveux, un motif sur un chapeau, une bouche qui aspire au monde…

Tu decapites.

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