Here we are at that crossroad again… I have picked-up witting, and noticeably those past two weeks I have put a few urban poetic texts together (mostly in french, sorry).
In one of them called “double nationality” I express my trouble coping with the changes to come, like “double nationality, feels for me like being a stranger in two countries“. Or ” Why can’t we have to hearts, one for your home town, and one for the magical city that welcomed you in your exile“…
My wife read it and even if the text by itself does not speak about family or me wanting or not to go back to France (it’s really just about how I feel I got no roots anymore, which is actually not even a bad feeling for me, ironically enough).
Then her reaction was: “It’s over! Since you seem more at ease writing the depth of your thoughts instead of speaking of it with the one that shared 14 years with you… I can’t take it anymore… Stay in you “magical city” alone I will go back with our daughter, you don’t need us as we are evidently a weight for you every single day…”
What can I say? She nailed it: YES it IS easier for me to WRITE my feelings down rather than TALK about them. And YES I don’t NEED anyone… When she’s right, she’s right…
And what did I do? I wrote another poem called “15 years”. How many women out there can say they are truly a muse for their husband like mine is? Too bad I can’t tell her…
And my thoughts as I write those lines are exactly: “what a bad timing, I have no more house end of June, the car is sold, and I have announced my departure at work, I wish she would have established that a little earlier while I had still something to keep me in my “magical city”, so next on my list: being a writer or leave for Sydney or for New-York… I guess I could write in both… Though I feel like writing in French, so maybe I’ll go back to Paris after all…”
Welcome in the thoughts of a schizoid…
I’ve read a post on 
It is against every single one of the fibbers in my being to express myself other than thru art or fiction. And as I wrote those very lines, my mind is pushing me to stop. Getting me reasons to actually quit, do something more pleasant, eat, get a candy, watch an episode of something, finish my book, anything but writing this… Just go back into my shell.
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