To you, who knew me
One of the many things you have awakened in me
…or was it always meant to happen?
You have brought back the feral frenchiness in me.
The emotions, connected to my French brain with their French words and their French smells
…they come from a much deeper structure.
Sournoisement.
Assourdissant.
These emotions are childlike in their power and complex in their refinement.
They will snarl at you, bite you
…and kill me viciously.
I lived for so many years with my English brain, always one step back.
Watching.
Analysing.
Describing.
The Icelandic brain was, in its bluntness, built to get what I needed. Sans detours.
But you brought it back.
The one who feels so much she can hardly contain it in politeness.
The one so direct she will break the rules.
The rules you follow so faithfully.
The rules you apply so professionally.
The rules…we both know.
À toi, qui m’a connue
Une des nombreuses choses que tu as éveillées en moi
…ou était-ce destiné à revenir un jour ?
Tu m’as rendu mon français de fauve.
Ces émotions, liées à mon esprit français, avec leurs mots français et leurs fragrances françaises
…elles remontent de loin.
Sournoisement.
Assourdissantes.
Elles sont enfantines dans leur passion et complexes dans leur raffinement.
Elles te mordent, te déchirent
…et me tueront férocement.
J’ai vécu tant d’années dans mon esprit anglais, toujours un pas en retrait.
Observant.
Expliquant.
Évoquant.
Mon esprit islandais, dans sa franchise brutale, était là pour obtenir ce dont j’avais besoin.
Án krókaleiðir. Sans détours.
Mais toi, tu as ravivé cette flamme.
Celle dont l’intensité ne rentre pas dans l’aimable.
Celle dont la sincérité brise les règles.
Les règles qui tu suis fidèlement.
Les règles que tu appliques professionnellement.
Les règles…que nous connaissons.
The crying hangover.
The day after.
That tear into a desolate soul.
The uncontrollable sobbing that you tried to soothe by hugging yourself.
Because there was no one to do it for you. Never will be.
The sore throat from the screams you suppressed.
Or was it your mindless chain-smoking?
The tightness around the eyes.
Raw and dry. The pressure behind them.
You should let the pain move through you.
But it stayed. And undesirable guest.
The head throbbing that reminds you that your heart is still pumping
…meaning that you failed at the ending too.
The hangover cries.
Painfully piercing a path to a possibly pathetic existence.
I sleep to feel loved.
I sleep best in daylight.
Something about feeling safe
…and loved.
I can drop the consciousness of my imperfect body,
and feel only the warm laziness of the sun.
Internal / External hug.
In sleep, I am most myself
…no one there to tell me what to fix.
Outside sleep, I wear a living mask
…all there to tell me what to rearrange.
In sleep, I feel love
that I don´t have to ask for.
Or fight for.
It´s just here.
Sleep is where we should all be.
Je dors pour me sentir aimée.
Je dors mieux dans les jours lumineux.
C’est quelque chose comme un sentiment de sécurité
…et d’être aimée.
Je peux laisser tomber la lucidité de mon corps imparfait,
pour sentir seulement la paresse ardente du soleil.
Câlin intérieur / extérieur.
Dans le sommeil,
Je suis le plus moi-même
…personne pour me dire quoi réparer.
Hors le sommeil,
Je porte un masque de vivante
…tout le monde pour me dire quoi arranger.
Dans le sommeil,
Je sens l’amour qui n’a pas besoin d’être imploré.
Ni conquis.
Il est juste là.
Le sommeil.
Où nous devrions tous être.
Writing, writing, writing.
Will it get me anywhere?
Sûrement pas.
Writing, writing, writing.
Does it help with holding that burden in my soul?
Probablement pas.
Writing, writing, writing.
Will keep me sane or drive me crazy.
Peut-être pas.
It’s the unfairness of it all that gets me.
I sleep maybe two hours at night, because I’ve spent the other hours twisting and squeezing the why me in my head.
It’s the finality of it all that breaks me.
I am bitter most of the time because my softness does not survive more than ten minutes.
It dies in its tracks. No sun left to power it.
I’ve had enough.
Enough if life. Enough of others. Enough of me.
It’s a dead end.
Not final, just dead.
Maybe there is another road behind the dead end? A mirror road? A living road?
But it won’t show itself to me. I won’t look for it.
So it’s dead too.
Because it’s not fair. Because I’m tired of fighting.
So it’s really the struggling that gets me.
I need to find a sleeping pill.
C’est l’injustice qui me met en nœuds.
Je dors peut-être deux heures la nuit parce que je passe les autres à tordre et serrer les pourquoi moi dans ma tête.
C’est la fatalité qui me défait.
Je suis amère la plupart du temps parce que ma douceur ne survit pas plus de dix minutes.
Elle meurt dans son avance. Plus de soleil pour l’alimenter.
J’en ai marre. J’en ai marre des autres. J’en ai marre de moi.
L’impasse.
Pas la fin. Juste l’impasse.
Peut qu’il y a une rue derrière l’impasse ? Une rue miroir ? un débouché ?
Mais il ne m’apparaîtra pas. Je ne le chercherai pas.
Alors c’est l’impasse.
Parce que ce n’est pas juste. Parce que je ne veux plus lutter ça.
Alors, vraiment, c’est le combat qui me défait.
Il faut que je me trouve un somnifère.
I don’t even know why I try anymore.
It’s not about the knowing.
It’s not about the trying.
It has become about nothing.
The knowing and the trying still held some hope,
or at least some resolution.
The why still wanted an answer,
even after being negated.
It was the invitation of an illusion.
No.
Here I sit.
Not knowing.
Not asking.
Not trying.
Even my phone is like me.
Afraid to be exposed, it folds.
The rest stays hidden.
It functions unopened:
Makes calls, plays music.
Folded.
Functional.
No need to open me.
It hurts.
It goddamn fucking hurts.
It’s the putain de merde d’enculé of hurts.
Not because you did not see me.
Not because you betrayed me.
Not because you simply did not know.
It hurts because
I know.
And I am alone in this insanity.
Out of seven billion people, only one person knows the truth.
Me.
And where do I turn this anger?
To myself!
I hate myself for loving you.
The way you look at me like I am the only one
who gets you.
Because why love you?
All that is facing me is a blank silent wall of deafness.
I do want to punish myself for this.
I want to make myself so tragic, I will die under seven layers of dirt.
All there will be is a black hole of emptiness and screams.
I cry myself to sleep almost every night,
Snot and all, to make the next day unbearable.
I make myself ugly, unwashed and bloody.
So no one will pity this.
I don’t want to know.
I don’t want to love.
What I want is to go back in time.
Before I knew you existed.
When all the pain was just my fault.
And all the ghosts were mine.
Look. I don’t know.
I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know what I want to feel.
I’ve said it a million times, this is heavy.
This is Sisyphus pushing the rock up the hill.
This is the love pressing on me, going nowhere.
Or no.
It’s going somewhere, then comes back. Unanswered. Unchanged.
I love you so deeply.
It’s an addictive obsession.
Assuming control of the tears. My dreams.
It’s a ringing in my ears that never stops.
It’s too much of everything.
What if I let the rock roll down the hill?
Just watch it until it stops?
What was a spiral is now a circle.
It hurts. It really hurts.
Like that hurt only children feel.
The one so absolute and infinite.
The one that says I love you, please remember me.
You owe me nothing at all.
But if you could find it in yourself to give me some of your cold armour? Some of your restrained logic?
Only for a little while?
Until I stop crying?
Écoute. Je ne sais pas.
Je ne sais pas où ça va. Je ne sais pas ce que je dois sentir.
Je l’ai dit un million de fois, c’est lourd. C’est dur.
C’est Sisyphe qui force le rocher sur la montagne.
C’est l’amour contenu qui va nulle part.
Ou non.
Il va quelque part et revient. Sans réponse. Sans changer.
Je t’aime si absolument que c’en est une dépendance hantée.
Qui contrôle mes larmes. Mes rêves.
Un bruissement dans mes oreilles qui ne finit jamais.
C’est trop de tout.
Et si, je laissais le rocher dévaler la montagne?
Le regarder jusqu’à ce qu’il s’arrête ?
Ce qui était une spirale est maintenant un cercle infini.
J’ai mal. Vraiment mal.
Le mal des enfants. Celui qui est immense et total.
Celui qui dit je t’aime, ne m’oublie pas.
Tu ne me dois rien du tout.
Mais si, tu pouvais le trouver en toi de me prêter un peu de ton armure froide ? De ta sobre logique ?
Seulement pour un instant ?
Pour la fin de mes larmes ?
Ton sourire.
Complètement innocent et hésitant.
Demandant: tu m'aimeras? Infiniment?
You know this moment when it’s not quite the end of the day? Not crepuscule. The one before that.
The light is still here but it has lost its glimmer. You know it will be dark in a good hour.
It’s that moment when you only feel the true emptiness of the day.
When your shoulders are so tense, you look around for ibuprofen.
When your legs hurt so much, you can’t even entertain the idea of standing in front of a stove to cook yourself dinner.
When you debate with yourself if you should take that shower now or maybe just a little bit later.
The light is still here but it has lost its spark.
You know that moment?
Not late afternoon and not early evening either? The unnamed time of the day?
It’s never a good time for me.
Because my mind, numb and naïve, will believe anything then. This is the time it enjoys distorting things for me. “I’m not wanted”. But really, it’s my mind
That doesn’t want me. So, it plays games to see if it can get me to divorce it. It likes the dramatics.
It’s also that time, because of the numbness, exhaustion and body weariness, that I’m most made of soul.
That’s when even I, me of all, call for you. In need and desire.
It could also very well be that my divorced mind is playing another one of its tricks. This is a possibility.
So, I tell myself to wait. If I didn’t start crying first (another possibility).
I wait for the light to dim, making the divorce papers final. For the sun to do its twilight thing.
And then.
It’s dark.
I have wasted another day.
I will sleep another night away.
Je voudrais être désolée pour moi-même mais c’est impossible.
Parce que je sais quelque part c’est ma faute.
Que je mérite tout ça.
Que j’ai fait quelque chose, quelque part pour en être là, ici, maintenant.
Je voudrais que l’univers en soit désolé pour moi mais c’est improbable.
Parce qu’il a sûrement quelque part une bonne raison.
Parce qu’il a décidé que c’était ce que je méritais pour quelque chose que j’ai fait.
Qu’il en a pris la décision là, ici, maintenant.
Alors ?
Rien.
J’en ai marre.
De quelque chose, quelque part, quelconque.