BYE BYE SUNDAY.

The rain has stopped. A glimpse of sunshine appeared this noon letting people know it was Sunday. The last day of weekend has always been the most beautiful day for me. It's the day I'll wake up to without panicking and checking my phone for the time. Sunday's beauty remains unchanged in my heart due to the fact that's it's my one day off, the only time when I get a chance to sit calmly at a cafe for a croissant and cappuccino, or stay lazy in bed until lunch.

But today, I enjoyed Sunday differently. I woke up at 7.30 with no proper breakfast in the same outfit I was wearing yesterday. You know where I've been. The walk of shame strutting for a few meters until I got in a cab. Before that, couples of eyes couldn't stop staring at me. Was it the black outfit from head to toe of mine with their unavoidable volumn? Or was it because those people'd been through what I've been through to know the face of a guilty early riser? Beats me. All I knew for certain was that everyone wanted their decent breakfast warm and their usual coffee served right whether or not my outfit mattered. As for me, I couldn't wait to go home and make up to the loss of my beauty sleep.

The process tunred out to scatter until afternoon, which reminded me of the weird dream I had while struggling to fall asleep last night: Audrey Hepburn was on top of me with a knife sparkling in the dark, she stabbed me once, I grabbed her blade with the palm of my hand, she stabbed me twice, I opened my mouth and locked it shut. However painful the dream was, it left me with a strange feeling of victory as if I had conquered evil.

It has been a while since I last remember having a violent dream. It would be rarer to spend the whole Sunday talking about it. Maybe the rain of a typical March in this city is not the main reason for a character swing. The call of summer with its boldness must be. It's pushing the inner gloom of our personality to the edge once and for all so as for us to wake up in a new skin. Andrey Hepburn must have heard the calling and was there to help me shred last night.

If only I could wear the new skin quickly enough.

Before saying goodbye to the last minute of Sunday, like an uncharming, farmiliar, ironic joke of life, I don't know if I'm longing for the new me or missing my old self. In fact, I may have ruined a good beginning of a writing with a doubtful development of it, which convinces me it's time to go to sleep.

Sophie Calle 1981, The Hotel.

AREN'T WE ALL?

I can't sleep. I guess it's a no-way-out situation for me to write something. Time feels faster then ever these days. I can't begin to write my resignation form. I don't think my family is aware of my smoking even though I burn my cigarettes in my room. I don't mind if they know. In fact, I don't think people would tell me to stop doing anything I'm doing. 

I can see my skin well with this bright white light. The little hair and the goosebumps. The imprint of my bra, the crease when I bend and the two moles on my right upper arm I discovered a week ago. I can see how normal I am at this moment and I can tell little about my interest in describing it. All I know is I stuck my tongue out to touch my chest and I could see the pointy tip of it moving up and down. It felt cool, wherever my tongue touched. 

I need to lose some weight and have my hair cut shorter. The sun needs to burn less and hide itself more often. If I were in a movie, would it be comfortable for the audience to watch? No, I don't think so. Because their mind is blind and the script wouldn't be made to be understood. 

Paris has been flooded. If it disappears, I'll be so sad that I'll forget about it the next day. A month later I'll cry over it and a year later I'll call Tangier home. One day, a Parisien will sail by my house on the Mediterranean Sea. We'll go into the water and I won't return. At the age of 40, I'll disappear like Paris to start my life over again. 

Maybe I'll never be able to do it. Maybe the reborn of people's life will be more likely executed through a divorce, a family member's death or bankruptcy. Or maybe I'm too young to know what makes life a life and how little sense my words make. But they were never meant to be understood. Without the ability to feel and truly feel, no one can ever live a life. I'd feel so sad for them. So sad that I couldn't care less because there're plenty of them walking pass my life and there's this big concern of mine I need to spend time for. 

I care about no one but myself. When a person appears in my life, and suddenly he or she makes up a part of me, I'll care about them, too. At this moment, I no longer enjoy seeing my chest's skin.