Missing limbs

It's such a beautiful day today.

My ex made a very good observation - he said it's strange that I always look up to check if the skies are still there. A bit like Asterix's fellow-villagers, who feared that the sky may fall on their heads at any time.

I guess what I'm fearing is to wake up one day and find that not even a beautiful sky is reason enough to carry on.

The eyes and lips of people on the street and in the metro don't leave much room for hope. Weighted down by gravity and speed, they look like random traces in the sand. Soon all the people will look alike, aged, ageless stick-figures. An up-pointing semi-circle, the mouth. Two crosses, the eyes. A hole in their chest, missing feelings. No worries, they can be easily replaced. Fill it with words or chocolate.

Meanwhile, I got back the feeling in my left ring-finger. It still feels empty from time to time, but it's getting better.

If worse came to worse, the Chat can chew it to the bone.

Gently lonely

The sound of my heels makes the strange man before me turn around. He says to himself that yes indeed he had heard something. This quaint street in a Parisian neighbourhood isn't so quiet though. And he has his headphones on. How atuned must he be with the world around him. How his insides must churn with loneliness. His mind is the desert. It pays nothing to search inside your own world. There is no water to feed the weeds. There are no weeds to begin with. No object to bestow your love or your admiration upon.

Another man my heels cross notices how many little shops line up here. He too says it outloud, to no one in particular. My heart breaks a little, but it thinks mainly of itself and of a time when such need to communicate might rise within myself. Too late. I'm already thinking outloud. My streets are empty, no step makes me hope for an accidental ear.

The Chat seeks the confort of paws, its own too small for such a big head.

In a hurry

Just begun this new blog because I needed to justify somehow the sad and the funny of my so every-day life (quite a definition there, 'cause usually life isn't made of every day, or days in general).
Anyhow...
Wanted to write down the magnificent message of one of Amy Winehouse's songs, "I can't help you if you won't help yourself". I keep telling myself that, but I am not yet a young millionaire. Nor am I young. Or millionaire for that matter - one should always specify if one is a millionaire or not, thus sparing the others possible blunders. I digress again.
The easiest and most sincere way out - in writing this blog or anything, in living, and in the famous RL - would be to replace every word written or spoken by an "I". But one does seek variety, as well as many many words to speak about oneself and more often than not to oneself only. Therefore... I can't help myself if I won't help myself. Oh and I do intend to help myself to anything I can.... :p

The Chat sharpens its claws... and delicately scratches a spot under its belly.