avant qu’elle parte, trois

I wrote the list, thinking it would somehow put things into perspective. but no. days went by. I tried hard to distance myself but the only thing I accomplished was to lose words in the process. I wrote a lot but most of it wasn’t for ‘me’. I kept pushing the emotions into a bottle, pretending none of it exists. and then it blew up right in my face. I turned twenty one on a beautiful sunday afternoon surrounded by people who matter. for a moment it became important to be aware of how good it is to be alive. because I was truly grateful. reality. something. I tried to forget about it but couldn’t. another elephant in the room. this time it’s mine only. I am slowly getting used to it even though I probably shouldn’t. I shouldn’t get used to any of this actually.

I put his music onto my disc, hoping it would somehow compensate for the fact that I barely spend any time with the family. the little one is growing so fast. every time I see her, she looks different. I don’t know why I feel like I am missing out on something. they’re not even my people. they’re not even what I want. most of the time. beautiful nights of peaceful sleep during thunderstorms were replaced with a couple of sleepless ones. short term insomnia made a comeback after an emotional meltdown at the most inappropriate moment. it all came back with a single touch and I couldn’t stop thinking. silent panic attack. my brain working thousand miles an hour. memories have turned into a blur; there’s no point in dealing with it now. I can only hope it will go away on its own. I miss those careless nights spent around the gold buddha figurines and plastic cups filled with cheap Chinese liquor. I miss not caring. I miss the illusion of having forgotten.

I stopped writing letters after the night of momentous consequences that were symbolically marked by buena vista social club and the single tennis ball on the floor. I am not sure whom to write the letters to.

I want to be sure.

instagram: april






in april there was lots of rain, thunderstorms and lightning. endless cups of coffee. grey and brown shades. homemade dinner for the boy. I wrote a lot, slept very little. I turned twenty one on a sunday and spent the afternoon in a drunken haze with my favorite friends. I am hoping to spend more time reading and walking in the coming months. my daily routines have changed in a way and despite not being a morning person, I like the early hours a little more now. especially if filled with sunshine.

follow me on instagram @ pereguinn

avant qu’elle parte, deux

but I needed some quiet. a few nights later, I turned my phone off, ignored everyone. confusion burned a hole through my heart and I didn’t know what to do with myself except to get lost in the red district. I made all the wrong choices, blaming them on my trust issues. I am not sure, which was worse. I wished to disappear; wanderlust of the worst kind. fortunate fool made its way back into my life but it is different now. no more teenage tragedies. first rain of the season arrived earlier than usually; I welcomed the rain and the fresh air afterwards with gratitude. in a way I was hoping the rain would wash everything clean. not just the streets.

father and I spent a couple of nights at the roadside bar, sans tsu tsou playing in the background, thunder storming outside. french music, a hat and a little black dress. I wanted to move to paris that night. nights turned into mornings, days turned into weeks with an ease that I didn’t expect at the beginning of our story. but I also didn’t expect to feel homesick and lonely whilst being with someone who can offer me a world better than my own. I made myself feel guilty over nothing; I wanted to share everything but I was afraid. I spent most of the nights intoxicated, trying to drown my mind in darkness, trying not to feel anything. it made sense to no one and least of all, to me.

I am clinging onto my self-preservation ways as if it’s the only thing that matters in this world. but I am losing it. slowly, the grip is disappearing and I feel there is nothing else to keep close. I am struggling with the meaning of my own philosophies and way of life. only because we combine intimacy, laughter and comfortable silences in a way I’ve never known before. I am not sure what I am trying to prove to myself. that I can stand on my own? by yourself is not enough. maybe.

inspiration, lately


images by marion.

dreaming of paris, listening to french folk music, writing. it has been many years since my last visit but it is the city I hold close to my heart. perhaps one day.

hong kong photographs, incredible photography by peggy wong. her photos made me look at hong kong in a different way.
a place to lay my heart. this made me feel all kinds of things but mostly how much I can relate to it. I am expecting this will be in the next fifteen to twenty years. hopefully.
burn all the liars. an article about frances farmer. it kind of blew my mind.
in defense of wanderlust. as I said, lots of travel writing.
strangers when we meet. a touching piece.
forget your personal tragedy. a letter from hemingway to f. scott telling him he didn’t exactly like his new book. a beautiful letter.
london snippets. just something I’ve been thinking about.
choose your color. one of the most incredible things I’ve looked at in a while.
john banville on samuel beckett’s letters. a piece of monologue.
the thought catalog has kind of become my bible. this, this, this, this, and this. and that. and this one. oh, and this one. and this one.
you are awesome. and other fifty ways how to say it.
something I tried to follow this weekend.

there is much more I have in my folders but I think this will do for now.

happy sunday, friends.

avant qu’elle parte, un

april started with a delicious dinner at the boathouse and a couple of bad photographs that I am keeping in one of my photography folders just for the memories. we were surrounded by the color blue and salty scent of the ocean. I was reminded of home and my mind kept drifting away. still, many details stayed with me. I wore red jeans that night. then the mattress on the floor and chocolate fudge cake with white english breakfast tea; our minds clouded with elation.

april fool’s day was supposed to be different but it wasn’t. if there is one thing I could change, it would be that day. cidade de deus was screened at joyce is not here. filmmaker was asleep in a drunken slumber on the couch. just like many years ago when I met him first. I sat quietly and waited for the film to finish. that night I walked around the streets with nowhere to go. I stayed out until the small hours of morning and crashed on a couch at someone’s place. someone I don’t speak to anymore. gypsy’s night, gypsy’s heart. I wrote in the morning at the bus station; the three palms in kowloon city. a paper cup with cheap coffee and seven dollar noodles for breakfast. I spent the last coins on a pack of cigarettes and walked home four kilometers; simply because I could and it did not matter. later that day I purchased chanel’s chance. simply because I could and it did not matter.

one night at joyce’s, a stranger said to me: keep writing. I sat on a high bar stool with a journal and a glass of red wine and thought this was the life I was supposed to live. in my mind I named the man Joe because he looked like one. strong american accent. he was surprised when I went to use the restroom leaving all of my belongings unattended. I said to him, it’s okay. we’re at joyce’s. the real joyce laughed at this and offered us a free drink. that night I was alone and didn’t mind at all.