Confined

It's weighing me down, this. In the confines of these four walls, trapped. I reminisce about the banks of the Seine but why? It was there that I spent an entire afternoon with myself and the magic the city spun around me.

Sometimes thoughts of eminent disaster can be strangely comforting. It's like the time when in my youth there was a notorious gang that entered peoples' houses in broad daylight, butchered them - sometimes skinning them - and hung them up from the ceiling. We spent many afternoons scaring each other with speculation about where they would strike next. It's a strangely sweet feeling, locked behind the security of doors in a dangerous world.

And then there was that night in Madrid in a club that was slightly bigger than my bedroom. The strangely animal quality of the performers left me in awe. It awoke something in me, something raw, something that filled my body with a sweet happiness. Perhaps that's how we were meant to be, humans.

I'm lacking that now. I've spun a web around myself to keep out the world and sit in solitude. It feels safe, keeping them all out. It's just me and me, like on the banks of the Seine.

Perhaps I am the love of my life 'cuz Paris was as romantic as they say. The narrow alleys of the Jewish quarter where I lined up for the falafel and tried to explain I was looking for a recycling bin for my empty bottle of cheap wine that I'd gotten drunk on. He laughed, he did, when I asked him, and then he tried to calm down my jittery nerves, and finally accepted a phrase in English which he didn't understand either, flirting a little. I sprinted out though and skipped off merrily, perfectly content in my own company. And now I'm thinking of the word caleçon and I have this strangely stupid desire to giggle.

Yes, I've trapped myself in a bubble and I'll get out, I suppose... when I want to.

I'm sorry for what I did
I did what my body told me to