I was talking about the tattoo on my wrist with someone the other day. They asked me what it meant, what it was about. I used to tell the whole story. Now I settle for the strict minimum. I realized I hadn't written in so long. I felt far away from myself in that moment, in his question. That's why the tattoo is here, so I don't forget. Also because it keeps Heloïse close, she's always a little bit with me.

Finns are so reserved. They traditionally don't speak much, and they keep their pains and struggles for themselves, most of the time. Living here has made me stronger, in many ways, also in ways I wish I wouldn't have gone through. It's made me more independent, more at peace with silence and loneliness. With suffering even. There is a quiet and unity, meditative. A connection happens when you have to face and live with yourself. Self-discovery.
Maybe in France we're more comfortable with spreading our words and lives open. Or maybe I just always surrounded myself with romantics, artists, activists. People of loud passions. It made writing easier in a way.

I have been thinking a lot about Pablo lately. It just doesn't get easier. I'm still in so much shock whenever I bring the story back. I still can't comprehend how it happened. I think about his mom. I know from my mom, that she doesn't really understand or get at peace with it either.
I was reading Amanda Palmer's note about the death of Anthony, her best friend. It was so real and moving and I could relate to so many of her thoughts and moments.
But I found myself jealous. We didn't have any time to prepare, we never knew, we still don't. He wasn't sick. He wasn't sad. He didn't leave us a note, he never left any clue to anyone. We won't ever know what happened. It just happened, and humans are fragile creatures who can't fly, and die when they hit the ground from up high.
I just thought it was always going to be here. I had time. More time. To call him, to see him, to discover him again. More shouting stars and tennis, swimming and playing. More grown up conversations, two annoyingly fast brains. "I hope that Margot keeps on messing up with her parents!!" I sure did buddy.
I keep thinking about how that same night, I had opened the window in my bedroom to close my old metallic blinds. The place was empty, it was late, maybe around midnight. I felt so alone and in pain. I felt breathless. I put my hands on the stone of the building and I looked down. Wondering if there was any chance for me to die if I was to jump. I remember the floor just sucking up my gaze, it looked like I was already falling and it was coming closer at high speed. A noise in the street and I snapped out of it, I closed the blinds and the window hastily and went to sleep. When mom called to let me know what happened I didn't realize at first. It's later, when they told us the press got it wrong, that it wasn't an accident. That we knew from the bathroom door being locked from the inside, and the size of the window, and how bend the spikes on the roof were, that he was alone, he didn't fall, he had jumped. That's when I realized it was the same night.
Most times I am at peace, it squeezes my heart, pinches my chest a bit, but I feel hopeful and that I carry him with me in my dreams and my work, my achievements and my struggles. But sometimes like tonight, I'm still just as incredulous and in distraught as when they told me.
How mom on the phone had said "Do you remember Pablo?" Like if I could have forgotten you. But the worse was, why she thought I might have forgotten. Because I hadn't seen you, or called you, or written to you in so long. Suddenly you were gone.