They’re piling up in my computer, unread. I scroll through their titles and see them glowing back at me. Click open one of them, words unseen, close it back.

Memory card filled with feelings unspoken.

Then, this one. Part two of what I once wrote to you. It calls to me and I find myself unable to look away.

I read, smile, my heart filled with love. I can’t find myself to share it online, for those events are long gone, but I know you’ll read it one day. I’ll share it all with you.

Those drafts are part of a story that will find it’s reason one day. Part of me. Part of you. Part of everything we’ve ever been and always will be.

Things change. But, for us, they’ll never end.



Fist against your jaw, bones breaking underneath, fingers turning red from the blood spitting out of your veins, your body hits the floor and I stare at you. Bitch, slut, asshole, motherfucker. I make a move to hit again and stop myself. Even in my mind, I can’t hit you on the ground. Frantic, I open my eyes, scratching down the story I witnessed, filling in the blanks. My boiling blood leaves its taste on my tongue. I bit too hard.

I used to be ashamed of anger. More than sadness, its power scared me. I was afraid of the images running in my mind, afraid that I might one day give them a reality. Afraid of the consequences if it ever happened. What would happen to me ? What would happen to them ? What would I think of myself ? Bottling it up inside kept the carnage at bay but how long would I last ?

The path to health is tumultuous. On my way, I made a deal with my feelings. I let them be, let them out, but they must do no harm. Not to me. Not to others. It’s a deal I made with anger too.

I take a piece of paper and write. As many words, as many pages, as many days necessary. I write the ugly, the abhorrent, the terrifying, self-censor turned off. Anger barks loud and clear until I am found whimpering, cut open but clean of pus. Quietly, I anoint myself and dress in soothing gauze. The breath I take spells relief as my mind clears of the fog of wrath and vengeance.

I used to live in a world of misconceptions. I didn’t trust what I couldn’t understand. Feelings were unintelligible. Guilty of weakness, I put them behind bars and made myself their watchdog. It took me years to realize I was their prisoner instead.

My words became my freedom.

I chose health over shame. Anger, sadness, love and happiness over a life of fear and misery. Feelings and I both respect our part of the deal. I learned anger comes from a place of pain, and I had to get through it to reach the truth of my problems. I thought I would be repulsed by it but, instead, I found myself understanding it more as it opened up to me and I to it.

My words remain on the paper. I turn around and throw them away. I am safe. So are you.

I found peace.
It’s all I’ve ever asked for.


It’s been a problem for me ever since I left my parents house. Before, they were pretty strict about how much time I should spend in front of it, if I was allowed to use it at all.

I’ve never been so grateful they kept me away from screens during those years.

Things started to change when I began living on my own. Despite my new responsibilities, I spent countless hours in front of my computer, screen glowing in the dark, often the only light I kept on. It wasn’t something bad, I told myself. Everybody else was doing it anyway. Facebook, MSN turned Skype, Youtube, Tumblr, Fanfiction.net, I was connected with the whole world. But I was disconnected from myself.

Eight hours scrolling down, only getting up for pee breaks, did it for me. I knew something was deeply wrong. After a week or two of anguish, I deleted myself from the world wide web. I had to go cold-turkey or I wouldn’t leave at all.

On and off it started. Going back when I thought I was feeling better. Deleting after realizing I wasn’t. I wanted so much to connect with others and it was difficult to do so IRL. People gave me weird looks when I told them I wasn’t on Facebook. Some even told me I had to catch up with time, everybody was on social medias nowadays, did I think myself special ?

It took me a few years but I found a way to use the Internet in a healthier way. I started writing this blog, the first one where I am able to speak my truth, and I wanted to share it with others. This time, I knew I would be able to use social medias the right way.

It lasted only a year.

It was insidious at first. I barely realized what I was doing. I started spending more and more time on the Internet, despite having reduce my avenues from what it once was. It was too much for me. Facebook and Instagram were deactivated promptly, Youtube blocked from my web browser. This blog remains.

We live in a time of transition. New technologies are invading the market on a daily basis. Electronics, apps, websites, social medias, there is no limit to this industry and it’s going fast. We barely have time to adapt to something new that it’s being replaced by something newer, shinier and supposedly better.

I love technology. The Internet gave me lasting friendships, new ideas, new interests and passions, communities to share it all with. It’s an opportunity to create tangible connections with real people. But, on my way to adaptation, I forgot that technology is not smart. It’s just a tool and I became a slave to it.

I used to feel guilty about not being on the main social medias. How would I connect with the people close to me ? How would I know about their lives ? How would I show them I care if I couldn’t like what they posted ?

Today, I disconnected from those social medias without feeling bad about it. I didn’t tell anyone ahead of time. I just left. Doing so feels like I reclaimed the freedom I had when I lived with my parents. Freedom to create rather than consume. Freedom to be rather than pretend. I might come back to social medias one day. I might leave again. Either way, I don’t really care anymore. This place, my playground, is all I really need.


The only thing I know is that I know nothing.

Words by Greek philosopher Socrate.

I learn new things everyday. About myself. About the world around me. That knowledge makes me feel more confident about my place in the world. A confidence that is usually short lived.

Everything is constantly changing.

I can’t say I am not scared of change. I learnt to welcome it, to make space for it in myself and in my relationships. But it still comes with its fair share of anxiety. No matter what I think or say or do, there is always the chance that it might change the next day or, more likely, in the next few years. And, these days, change appears soon after I utter the words « I want. » Almost to the point where I dread thinking them, since all those « wants » turn into « how ? » And I don’t know the answer to that question.

I know what I want but I don’t know how I want it.

I want a commited, loving relationship with my partner. How ? Commitment is more than just words exchanged verbally or on paper. But what is it for me ? How do I accomplish that ? How does love works for me ? How do I grow a relationship that feels healthy for me ? Communication, respect, trust, yes, but what happens beyond that ? How different is love from one person to another ? I don’t know. I’m learning.

I want to make a career with words. How ? Studying in litterature is as good a guess as I have to begin with. It’ll surely broaden my horizons rather than staying on the narrow path of « novelist » that has been suffocating me for years. And then what ? Where will I work ? What kind of job will I have ? Will I remain in the country ? Will I spend my time reading or writing ? Will I be able to do everything I want to do ? I don’t know. I’m learning.

Socrate said he knew only one thing. I believe he knew two. He also knew he wanted to find the truth, to the point where he invented a way that would enable him to find the weaknesses in other people’s arguments, the lies people told themselves and others, so truth would not escape him if he ever found it. He wanted the truth but he didn’t know what form that truth would take, nor how it would appear in front of him. The only truth he knew was that he knew nothing. He hoped to find more, despite the many failures on his way.

Samuel Beckett later put it another way :

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

Change comes with failure. Not knowing what to do, where to go. Trying again anyway. I will surely fail a lot on my way to get what I want because I don’t know how I want it. Relationships. Writing. My future. I don’t know. I’ll learn. I’ll fail better. In the meantime, I know that I don’t know. That’s a good place to start.


heart full of fears and insecurities
I write to you
loved by your reassurances
you are there
reading it all
so I write
let go of the fears
of the thoughts
dripping one by one
onto my touchscreen

then, I ask about you

how are you feeling ?

above the blinking cursor
silence answers

I stare silently
and blink back my tears



red streaks pulsing down the sidewalk
strangers staring
unfamiliar faces
sirens echoes on the stark concrete
nobody moves

seconds of sweet nothing on the news
a pressed apology in small print
flags failed their families
clock ticking
countdown to another casualty
you will never hear about