Numb

It seems as if at times the world you find yourself in isnt the the one we set out to make. Full of love and selfloathing. Promises unkept. Feelings bottled. Words unspoken, while the ones that were heard seem to have lost all meaning. Still, they seem to be the only thing left. That, and the feeling that my heart still belongs to the one that got away.

Remember yesterday, and live for tomorrow.

Meanwhile, just breathe, in a vague attempt to keep our sanity, and above all, still believe that maybe tomorrow she'll be back.

Summers end

Laurent was washing his hands before heading to the "alberge" kitchen. He couldnt stop talking about the girls in red he saw in front of the Notre Damme. I insisted he should paint the scene but he only wanted to paint the girls. I dont think he noticed the man in the red outfit with all the red balloons for saint valentines day, giving one to a little kid and trying to flirt with his mother while the little kid ran off to chase the pidgeons. Neither do I think he noticed the teenager sticking red gum on the bench while singing "Keep on rocking in the free world". It was strange seeing all this happening behind the wanna-be models posing for their boyfriends and their disposable cameras. They were all wearing red. With so much red, Laurent was wondering if he still had any left. But I guessed he'd need even more if he hadn't been so distracted by the girls cleavage. 

It was summer, but you could never tell what kind of light you'll have in Paris. Sometimes it was like a London winter evening and at other times it was like summer in the Greek islands. That day it was very bright, in fact, too bright for me. The sun had scorched my blond eyelashes even though I had them hidden behind my Ray Bans. Laurent had no problem. He had very dark skin and had grown up with his dad in Rabat so he was used to those kinds of days when you couldn't hide form the sun. He always carried a brush in his pocket. He would sometimes paint imaginary images with invisible paint on a bench or on the wall when he saw something he liked. It was a paint brush that looked like a corporals toothbrush after being used for several months cleaning letrines, dry and with stray hairs poking out in random directions. He said it helped him remember the images before he painted a canvas. 
While we headed on to the kitchen, he took it out and dragged it along through the hallway of the sixth flour drawing incosistent lines on the wall, like a little kid drawing with crayons on a freshly painted wall. We quickened our pace, it was already ten. And they never served dinner passed ten