They Always Come Back, SHE DOES NOT

A Memory...

Oran, Rapallo,Rome, Paris,New York
Cities where i have known so many women, where i knew my darkest desires as a man, but never sensed my real divinity, never had that potency to feel loved in a certain way,as ive always aspired, i might be wrong for seeking that from the outside, avoiding digging within which obviously is  another subject to talk about.

Kamèlia,Paola,Marie,Luna or Kristina, names dont really make any sense to me, as long as my heart has loved any yet, why would someone bother memorizing buncha letters? does a certain Name truly define its owner? Or its just the human urge to make a meaning out of anything and literally everything...

Now in the middle of this gracious city, the city of joy and love as my mother had always said, i look back at my foolishness and i just feel like laughing until my lungs explode, laughter of agony and regrets.

Paris, for me is no longer my muse, being on this land makes me anxious and ready to commit a crime, any kind of , unless falling in love with whomever.
The resentment ive got inside towards this entire country is undescribable, unfinished, unbearable and somehow uncured.
My mother was the sweetest woman on earth, the most vulnerable being ive ever lived with " Marguerite ", her name is.
Indeed, she is a flower, a very soft and sensitive one.
She was the most beautiful amongst "All the flowers " but HE , had chosen to neglect and throw her away where death was the final station for such a being.

now as i am staying here, on this chair , looking at these photographs of us, me her ,him, and Paris. I feel nostalgic and mad at once.

My mother's scream is all what i can remember, in fact it will never leave my ears, i still can sense the same chest tightness the moment i heard them fighting in the kitchen over "Them".
Over his "Women" whom i despised so much because they made my mother suffer, but HE, he simply KILLED HER.
When it comes to her, i write like a kid, i talk like a kid , a feel like a kid, she is the reason behind my soft soul and iam ready to embrace that all over again.

This picture of that vintage white car,which " my fath- er" had bought for my mother as a birthday gift, i was so little back then that i could barely remember the details ...now all i am certainly sure about is that i hate that car and i hate the person who bought it, i hate the fact that it was the reason behind my mother's death, it was the main reason of me feeling sick and lost.
It was the reason that broke me into pieces at the age of seventeen.
Thats how i lost the source of my happiness & affection , and it seems like i had lost it for eternity.

’’ A rich charming man is not always abundant, it might be a curse having a luxurious life.’’
- M, 1999
One of the notes i found the other day as i ordered my bookshelf , written by my mother , years ago as i could read the date left below.

The smell of her is still stuck on that old yellow  piece of paper, her handwriting is as pretty as her Eyes & smile.

I think she meant my father by saying that, he was that gorgeous and still.
After my mama's funeral he left the house, without bothering himself to take me with him, the seventeen years old me saw him walking away abandoning everything, not caring even about his work which he used to worship.
He was that RICH to the point of stupidity, where even young girls play him after taking half of his money, he is a victim of his own dirty world, which he had chosen over his family.
I just feel sorry for him now, the seventeen yo me is no longer suffering nor feeling that unsupported guilt.

Alain Rousseau, his name, as i stare at his pictures i dont feel anything, i dont know, not missing him, not mad at him, not wanting to take revenge...i just wish him peace wherever he is right now.

Going through ’’L'Album des photographies ’’ is like opening a gateway and going straightforward into  the past.
-M, 2009.
Another quote, written by Maman and seems like it was her last one .
She left this cruel world with a thorn on her side.