Today I sat down in a bus that drove me in the very small French village that is my home, a place in the middle of trees and ponds. I watched the spectacle of nature passing by and reflected on the huge contempt I used to have for this place, in which boredom and laziness appear to me as so ubiquitous. The hours I spent writing about how life was happening everywhere but here are still fresh in my mind. For me, it was impossible to image leading a life so imbued in such routine, in tree streets where nothing ever change and where kids speak loudly to hide the fact that there is nothing to say.
So I was in that bus and I thought about my year, lived in London away from the people I had spent eighteen years with and the streets I am familiar with. A year spent dancing, discovering, writing, enjoying new feelings. The fact that I gained some calm and probably maturity allowed me to understand what I identified and named as the missing piece, this part of ourselves that we are all craving and looking for. It can take the forms of an obsession with poetry, of the need to always be surrounded by people, of the habit of listening to five hours of music per day. For me, it was exemplified by a strong need to go away - I needed, for my sanity, to leave France and villages, to see something else, other people, other places, other faces. I did it.
The feeling of the missing piece never go away, it just turns into something else. Now that I am back, I can feel it even more - this impression that I am constantly lacking something I am not able to name, making me scared of being alone. I am not saying this correlates with sadness or overthinking - I am simply self-aware of it. And if I pay attention, I can see it everywhere. In my friend who sleeps with whoever she meets, and disappears the next morning. In my neighbour, who smokes a pack of cigarettes alone everyday. On Instagram, in this competition to prove that one is living a better life than the others. In Rimbaud’s poetry. In the lines of my favourite song. In my favourite movie. We are all looking for something more.
If my first year in London taught me something, it is that this feeling indeed never goes away. It might simply signify that we are all idealizing what life should be, therefore living in a constant disappointment of reality. It might otherwise be proof of something inherently broken in our society. I don’t know, and do not have the legitimacy or maturity to say such thing anyway.
The trees at this time of the year are particularly green and the sun shines through their leaves. Am I thinking too much? Should I stop questioning my youth? Nature went by and so did my mind.
I think there is only one way for me to feel that void - be it imagined consequence or not: by writing, and living.
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