I’m at Foyle’s café, sitting on an uncomfortable high chair, facing Chipotle. I fancy a burrito, but I’m not in eating mode.
I bought three DVDs.
Numbing my little hunger with chamomile tea to calm my stomach from today’s stress and unhealthy food.
My bra is too tight; I can’t breathe.
What was I even thinking this morning when I put it on?
The last time I was at Foyle’s, an artist observed and drew me. I felt flattered, and I felt pretty.
I just turned my music off to sink into the sea of voices. Why can I not make out one word? I sometimes hear these noises in my dreams; so unclear, the views so opaque. Is this uncertainty my view on the people around me?
Thinking about orgasms, in fact, I prefer the French expression “la petite mort.” It sounds more romantic–cold and illogical. I’m thinking of (+44)’s song “Little Death,” on which I based one of my most personal short stories.
A little girl that lives in fairy tales: Peter Pan teaches her to fly. It’s not clear whether he has raped her or not.
She bled.
It could’ve been her first period.
La petite mort; one part of you dies heavenly, but the rest keeps on living, aspiring, loving.
Life is good; un petite mort is part of it and can be considered the beginning of something.
Coming, coming! Set my brain free!
My heart surgeon has the same problem; not even the brain surgeon was able to fix it.
It’s because she’s not in love with him. She’s not in love with him.
La petite mort, la petit mort!
A burrito and a salad. That sounds easy.
I feel a pain in my breast; I can’t loosen my bra in public.
La petite mort is like falling asleep. Your mind is in a dangerous place where meaning is only an obscure landscape. There is nothing to find.
There are three horses! One wants me, the other one doesn’t, and the last one is not sure. All these beautiful horses!
La petite mort is probably evident in the heart, but I’m not in love; I just want to live and fall victim to some hedonism. I am not in love.
La petite mort is a pursuit. First, you learn to breathe, and then you learn to let go. You breathe in again for certainty and let go again, but this time for good.
La petite mort. My brain is filled with all sorts of trivial memories of meaningless phrases, uninspiring pictures of brick walls and repetitive names I can’t forget.
I shall burn all my handwritten journals, never look back; there’s nothing to come to terms with within a memoir—only a temple of ruins.
Now my hunger’s gone; no one’s drawing me.
My eyes wide open, ears sharp.
A soft male voice was speaking German and English.
Someone’s phone vibrates on the table.
It’s mine.
I’m restless.
I fancy apple pie. I want a slice of apple to glide on my tongue and please my senses with sweetness. So much temptation spread on my strongest muscle leading my lower brain towards the brink of sin.
La petite mort, one day I will come with you.
