I came back from France to find a letter from ∆ under my door.

∆ has been my only love. We lived together for 3 years at 5 Waldo House, London. All this time, most of her life was revolving around 1/ my existence 2/ hiding my existence.

She’s almost the only person I ever woke up with (I don’t like sleep overs). This parenthesis is still impregnating our physical memory.

I haven’t even heard the sound of her voice since the last day of 2013.

The ghost of ∆ lingers between the lines of most of my writing. She visits me in dreams all the time.

In her letter, she finally released me by saying: “I will never have the guts that you do. I am not designed to be an adventurer and I like it as it is.”

After this revelation, I had an urge to throw her an impromptu dinner invite. I went for a long walk in the streets of London instead, to massage my bruised emotions. The almost summer dusk light blinded my blue eyes. The atmosphere was chilled and communicatively effervescent because of the World Cup game (Italy-England). I saw a girl with ridiculously yellow fluorescent stilettos smoking outside a pub. As I was meandering around, I felt that my frozen heart was finally waking up from the deads.

All of a sudden, after a year of swinging between despair and ecstasy, I KNEW that I was on my way back to life, like Sleeping Beauty being kissed by Prince Wanker after 100 years on hold. No one kissed me though. I kissed myself back to my state of grace. Every time I’ve been recovering from a phase of despair, I remember reopening my eyes on the beauty of the US/Icelandic/French/UK light which seemed more glorious than ever before.

My only certitude as to the direction I am taking is that I will have a free (and hilarious) life.