I went to Paris again to pick-up my new passport. Since it was supposed to be a long weekend for me (Two days before the trip, our teacher changed his schedule and I had to skip class because of this trip), I decided to stay over the weekend with my friend.
She has been living in Paris for a few months now and used to work in the tourism industry so she showed me to places I’ve never been to. We went to see the Opera Museum and Galeries Lafayette but the most memorable place we went to was the Shakespeare and Company bookstore.
It was a quaint two-story bookstore along the Seine river in the 5th arrondissement. Honestly, I got so excited when I saw pre-loved books outside the store and eventually bought 3 books before I left. It felt so good to be in a bookstore filled with old and new English and French books. I couldn’t stop smiling and be amazed at the whole bookstore. I wanted to take photos but unfortunately, it wasn’t allowed.
We went to the second floor and saw there was a gathering in one of their rooms. At first, we were just hovering in the doorway but the hostess, Panmelys, a Welsh poet and a painter residing in Paris, invited us to join in the tea party. We decided to stay and listen to her stories and poems. She also encourages people to share their own poems or their favorite poems.
The tea party was almost done and Panmelys was asking if there was someone who wanted to be the last poet of the night. So I gathered all of my courage, with the help of my friend, and volunteered to be the last poet.
Before that day, I have never shared my poems with anyone for a very long time now and I rarely write poems. It felt liberating to share something so personal that happened a long time ago. It was the first time in 5 years that I shared that poem, with strangers even. After my reading, my friend was shocked that I used to write and even told me that she had goosebumps. The hostess and another writer who was there said it was a great poem and encouraged me to continue writing and not to worry about not being able to write right away but just letting the words flow.
It felt so good to be surrounded by artists again, after living in France for more than 14 months now. And I think it’s a good idea to continue writing and I will share it on the blog soon. For now, here is the poem that I shared called The Unknown. (A little background of the poem: I wrote this about 5 years ago, at a time when I lost someone I cared about and felt lost.)
The heaviness of my eyes
starts to fall on the floor.
Dragging my mind to the depths
of the unknown.
Seeking a hint of light
out of the nothingness.
I blink, once, nothing.
I blink, twice, still nothing.
The emptiness of the unknown
is starting to sink in.
Dragging me deeper
And deeper in this endless tunnel.
Depression is starting to cover me
with its huge bare hands.
Grasping on my arms
like a tightrope, twisting and pulling.
Choking me, inhaling
everything out of me,
or what’s left of me, that is.
Out of breath, panting.
He’s letting me go, for now,
leaving me with all these scars,
and letting me venture alone
in this torturous endless path.
But I know he’ll come back for me,
torturing me once again
with his mighty hands,
and leaving me, finally, a lifeless corpse.