Sometimes I hear you speak to me. Words echoing somewhere, just out of reach. Glimpses of light, fractured memories spin by like a carousel. I get that awkward feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if love sick. That longing, that sense of elevation…like flying and at the same time a melancholic sadness, like the unfulfilled lover. Waiting. Hoping. Praying that one day our roads will meet again.
I remember you as someone who used to fill me with fire. All my artistic dreams came to light. I would wander the streets, pen and poetry book in hand. Page after page would be filled with caffeine covered notes of beauty, mingled with my own inner pain. Everything was a little bit shattered. It was that pain I could never shake, the pain that made me fear my own pursuit. I had the fire. I had the desire. I just lacked the clarity, the knowledge, but I tried. I really went for it. That’s when I realized that beneath the fire was that pain, that insecurity and everything I did was tainted by it. The fire kind of got subdued. I censored myself. Artistic expression became about perfection, about following rules and guidelines. Sure enough some of those guidelines gave me so much – I created things I came to love, things I was truly proud of. I gained the knowledge. Yet I had let go of that sense of complete abandon. Of fully giving of myself. Like when I used to wander those streets.
Sometimes a street light, or the sight of a perfectly yellow lemon will take me right back. I’m once more where I belong, walking those streets, poetry book in hand. Everything I see is filled with beauty – I search for beauty in everything; in smells, tastes, sounds…and life is blissful. I’m immersed in the art of life and my creative juices are overflowing. Everything I see adds another piece to the puzzle. Everything I hear brings me one step closer to completing a script, a poem, an artwork… Around me answers are swirling in the air like leaves in autumn. Everything is there to help me create my art, like a giant jigsaw puzzle I’m gathering one piece after another. One step closer to fulfilling the dream of completing another project.
I’m allowing myself to create again. Stains of red wine next to my laptop. Delirious words flying by. This blog is no longer just about sexy confessions, sexy life lessons with a twinkle in their eye…ever so often I take a break from those and I play. Words enchant me and I let them. The garlic bread and the wine…I’m suddenly eleven years younger and I’m walking the streets of Paris with a dream in my hand.
I still dream. The dancers at the Moulin Rouge are still as colorful as they were when I left Sweden all those years ago. When I dreamt of a bohemian revolution, of beauty, truth, freedom and love…when I took my backpack and left and ended up in Paris. The sunrise by the Seine, the artist studios in Montmartre…every part of the city touched me with her beauty, every part made me ache and wonder.
I can feel you again, your streets so filled with beauty. The streetlights that would fill the night with magic. How you inspired me! How every step I took felt like I was lost in an artwork, or in my own dream. And then as I kept pursuing my dreams everyone congratulated me on one school after another, one city after another. London, Los Angeles, Cape Town…but somewhere along I died. I started believing I’d never come to accomplish anything. That I would be stuck doing something other than what I trained in. The irony in following your dream to become an artist.
A light flickers in the night. A wind caresses my ear. I can hear you speak to me. Soft words. A soft welcome back. Back to the core. To who I always was. Without the pain. Without the destruction.
I remember sitting in our first flat…I was writing on my laptop. The laptop suddenly died, although the battery was full. The lights were flickering. My flatmate was talking about writing erotica as a means of survival as a writer and I laughed. I was so filled with youthful enthusiasm. I told her our flat would be put on the map. A tourist destination. We would become famous. I believed in my dreams, but fame was a false dream, my heart was the true dream. I loved the artistic life. The feeling of living the dream, but as youthful fools do they pursue before they are ready, they start feeling ashamed for having listened to the ego as much as the heart and then they lose the fire as challenges extinguish the flames…just like my laptop died. Just as the lights flickered. A ghost? A story foretold?
I’m sitting by my laptop writing at night. The can can girls still dance. The creperies are all still there. Paris’ streets look the same. With my eyes I seek out the angles for the camera. My heart dreams the same dreams. Nothing’s changed, but everything is different. And from the wilderness in Africa you can hear a different roar…