It’s Me I’m The Survivor

Christophe Jacrot

all day, a breeze dances in and out of the apartment. the windows, wide open. the sky gets dark around 7, and I turn on a low lamp and light two candles, content in the half-dim living room. a rain rolls in and I can hear the long-dry earth breathe a wet sigh of relief under its shower. the tv stays hushed and sleeping. my dishes from dinner wait in the sink. the candlelight flickers shadows across my notebooks. after a nap by my side, the dog pads over to the window for a better listen of the cars slicking over street puddles.

I've missed this. living alone. the way a night deepens my solitude. how each decision through the day has come to this: a quiet apartment, save for the sounds of my typing. four walls, warm and dim and perfumed by the sky just beyond it. I've missed this, closing down the kitchen on my own. watching the space around me fall asleep. comforted by the knowledge that I made this feel like home. I made this feel nice for me. every corner, a letter of self-love.

while i was trying to wade through the large amounts of people trying to leave the central subway station, everyone abruptly came to a halt in front of the subway turnstiles. two french girls had misunderstood the tap-out process, and one of them was now stuck behind the gate. as i was wracking my brain on how to explain the tap-in tap-out process of the milan metro to both of them with my rudimentary french while they both got increasingly upset at the closed gate between them, a young teenager suddenly pushed me to the side.

i was just about to give him my most scathing disgruntled glare when he took out his ticket and, after realizing they had no common language, started gesticulating wildly in front of the french girl left behind. he pointed at the ticket, then at her, and very seriously said: “on three, we go.” she nodded, and after he counted to three, holding up his fingers so there could be no confusion, they sprinted through the gate together, giggling profusely afterwards as if they had just pulled off the heist of the century,

it was just a small moment during the morning commute. but i realized then and there that the time i had spent trying to intellectualize the problem and wondering if my lack of language skills would be awkward the situation could have already been resolved. and that while i had been mad about being pushed aside, the teenager got it exactly right: no questions, no fear or shyness, just direct action to help where you can and rushing there to do so. i think about him every time now when i run to lift someone’s pram or ask a lost looking person if they need my help despite the fear of being rude. on three, we go.

“god loves you” yeah but so does satan. so does everyone. conclusion? i am a brilliant whore

The clouds, like swirls of cream circling through the tea, glowed gold as the late fall sun set, adding a sense of finality to the warmer, greener months. Orange, red, and yellow had long replaced the greens of the leaves as the days drew shorter and colder. Only a sparse few held their summer colours, like a final fleeting hope of better times.

this website’s easy watch. *dangles a bunch of greek gods like keys*

Hey. Hey you. The person aimlessly scrolling, stuck in an immobilized standoff with your brain

It's not your fault. You won't be stuck forever. I know you're trying. I know you hate it. It's ok.

And tell the Mean Voice in your head that it's not helping. It knows as well as you do that you would get up and Just Start the task if you could. You're not doing this on purpose.

Take a deep breath. Relax your jaw. I see you trying so hard to break out of it, but you can't force it. You'll get Unstuck eventually. All you can do in the interim is be kind to yourself.

sometimes you meet a man who you swear hung the sun. you meet a man who makes you want to turn back time to undo every mistake you've ever made, to be as perfect to him as he is to you. you meet a man who scares you down to your core. you meet a man who is unable to imagine a life without you, who you speak to one time and the initial connection is so powerful that he draws you right out of your shell, and reveals bliss in the discomfort. you meet a man who you like, who entertains you, who listens to you, and who you want to entertain back, for hours, and whose stories you could hear until you're able to build a clear image of his entire life in your restless head. you meet a man who you make smile, who you cut off in the middle of a joke to kiss for moments, minutes, hours, and whose eyes hold every other star in the galaxy that they have yet to hang. you sometimes meet men like this, and the suns they catch and hang come from you. they draw the heat you hold inside your smoldering heart from your chest, and suspend it over you and the world, warming everybody with the warmth you've given to him.

.....and everyone lived happily ever after :)

“Please stop writing! The very next thing you write will actually happen!”