En ce jour de pétales de roses,

De preuves d’amour en toutes choses,

Je tenais à te rappeler,

Ce que peut-être tu as oublié.

N’oublie donc jamais que tu es un soleil,

Pour moi, tu seras toujours une merveille,

Une porte vers le monde et ses lumières,

Et les rêves qu’offre une mère.

N’oublie donc jamais que tu es ma vie,

La seule que j’ai, la plus jolie,

Car tu es et sera à mes côtés,

Pour toujours, pour l’éternité.

N’oublie donc jamais que tu es le ciel,

Ainsi que les terres d’où coule le miel,

Avec toi je ne peux point pleurer,

Car seule ta vue peut me réconforter.

N’oublie donc jamais que tu es un amour,

Et cela, depuis toujours,

N’aie jamais peur que je parte et t’oublie,

Car je serai là pour la vie.

N’oublie donc jamais que je ne peux vivre,

Sans mon soleil, sans mon ciel,

Sans ma terre et mon miel,

Sans mon amour, sans ma mère,

Toutes choses que tu es.

Et surtout, chère maman, n’oublie donc jamais,

Que je t’aime et je t’aimerai toujours.

Dédié à ma maman.

Joyeuse fête des mères!

Dear Evelyn

I know I haven’t talked to you in a while, but it’s because of a very simple reason. You might not understand it, or maybe you might not even want to, that I don’t much mind, but please do read, for I strongly need to speak.

For 3 months, I have seen nothing but a blank page. Normally, it wouldn’t have bothered me, maybe I wouldn’t have even realised that I hadn’t written anything that would make sense since what seemed forever to me. Though now, more than ever, I needed to write. I needed to feel the words flow, the thoughts come, to see the page fill up as someone looked down at the sentences, the so long sentences that maybe made no sense to them. Maybe what I really needed was the security of doing something, something that would actually mean that everything was okay.

Because I didn’t get it anymore. There was nothing that made sense to me, not even my own thoughts-especially my own thoughts. People… They didn’t have meaning anymore. They were all superficial, stupid, naïve… Probably as much as I was. I could have written pages and pages about sadness, about what I thought life was. Though who would want to read books that made them depressed? Who wanted stories that could make them cry? Maybe that was one of the reasons why I was mad. Not even in writing, the only thing that made me say what I couldn’t say aloud, could I express my true thoughts. And everything else… I couldn’t talk about it. I didn’t know how to talk about normal stuff, I couldn’t find THE idea of a story, an article, a book that would make everyone listen. I had to find it if I wanted to get somewhere. That was the big thing: the hypocrisy of it all.

How I hated when people said that everything was simple, that people were all nice, that everyone had a chance to get to their dreams. The stupidity of these thoughts… I couldn’t bare it, it made me scream out my frustration, but on the inside, because on the outside, you’re not allowed to.

I had stopped dreaming, because wishing things to be great was like hoping to win the lottery when you didn’t even buy a ticket. They say it’s just a phase, a moment that would pass. I clung to that thought, I clung to it desperately and tried to simply survive instead of living, because wanting to live hurt too much.

The thing is, I knew what getting through it meant. I remembered being happy, I had almost got there, but I had immediately failed in completing that task and went back to simply surviving. Though sadness, I had understood, wasn’t how things were, it was how you saw them. One second, it’s the end of the world and a moment later, you know everything is okay, even if the situation didn’t change, it was you who had changed.

I keep hoping to change and it is that hope that keeps me alive. Though writing you this letter helped, even if I will never send it to you, no matter how much you say we are friends, because you wouldn’t understand it and you would do like everyone else: judge. Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you for doing it, for I would do the same. I know you will never read this letter, but still I’ll keep on wishing that you’ll read it in my eyes.

Your truly,

Angela

De l’art moderne…

Pour couper cette ambiance morte,

Pour tomber des nuages blancs,

Pour vivre de façon forte,

Et courir, les cheveux dans le vent.

La vie…

Pour sentir le souffle glacé,

Pour ne point mourir mort,

Pour entendre le timbre chanté,

Des diamants naissant de l’or.

L’amour…

Pour avoir de quoi pleurer,

Pour entendre choses tues,

Pour savoir comment chanter,

Histoires que nous avons vécues.

La pluie…

Pour pouvoir recueillir les larmes,

D’une vie trop apeurée,

Pour savoir prendre les armes,

Contre ce monde si effréné.