I am in Paris. At the train station, awaiting to depart to Belgium.
There is an anxiety I feel as I am about to leave the City of Lights. The trip has been a thing of misery. Travel while you are young they say. Live your life to the fullest. You will meet people and remember these moments forever they say. Yet I've met no one. I've just been wandering here, alone, feelings of unrequited romance, heart open to anything, yet all the hearts around me are closed. I don't know why.
And then I see her.
THIN. WHITE. GLASSES. 7/10. Parisian chic, in a demure hipster way that only a thin metropolitan white woman could pull off. She looks like Rachel Leigh Cook from "She's All That" before the makeover, and more red headed than brunette. She is so perfect it is PAINFUL. And most importantly, there is a sadness to her, because she is ALONE. This is a beautiful pale sadness that invokes poetry of Lord Byron or Keats:
THINK not of it, sweet one, so;---
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Any---anywhere.
Do not look so sad, sweet one,---
Sad and fadingly;
Shed one drop then,---it is gone---
O 'twas born to die!
Still so pale? then, dearest, weep;
Weep, I'll count the tears,
And each one shall be a bliss
For thee in after years.
Brighter has it left thine eyes
Than a sunny rill;
And thy whispering melodies
Are tenderer still.
Yet---as all things mourn awhile
At fleeting blisses,
E'en let us too! but be our dirge
A dirge of kisses.
She is reading a book. Houellebecq. Checking her phone. An android, not an iphone! Did someone stand her up?? She is sad and alone, and SO AM I. Little pockets of acne scars. Beautiful little flaws that fool you into thinking that she is on your level. It's these flaws specifically, that make her stand out, that make you want to die for her. At this moment, consumed by her radiance, I AM IN LOVE. I don't care if I don't know anything about her. I WANT TO MARRY HER. TO BE WITH HER FOREVER. I start pacing to her.
I already know her name. Alizée. I call herself that in my mind in that moment because "Allez-y"-- go on! This is my moment. My heart is racing. I sweat palpably. The most heart racing walk in my life. Standing three and a half feet away from her. I clear my throat and close my eyes nervously.
But when I opened them, HE came like a reaper, swooping from behind. Alizée turned to him like a giggling Disney star. And then they kissed like dreamers. And I died right then and there. He stood up to reveal his towering height. Blonde, blue eyed, gaellic with the face of Alain Delon. A deathly weight sank in my chest like a bullet, I stumble back slowly, painfully. He must have been 6'5, did it matter? I was a dwarf right in that moment anyway. He looked into her eyes as happy as a prince, and she looked at his, as happy as a princess. TWO BEAUTIFUL WHITE PEOPLE IN LOVE. And I am a balding 5'2 indian janitor meant to die alone.
There is no greater hell than watching perfect loves bloom all around you in the heart of Paris. A perfect love YOU WILL NEVER HAVE. Blooming is for whites. Shitskins are for fertilizer.
As they turned their head to my direction, I immediately started pacing away furiously like a coward. I can see them smirking at me in the periphery. And then they looked into each other's eyes again, to eskimo kiss, and start boarding the train.
They probably thought of me as some unfortunate loner, about to ask for change. Maybe if they vote against Le Pen guys like me would "do better."
Stung in pain, I squat down to breathe, but a gay policeman came by two minutes later to rudely tell me "Allez-y," go on, I'm not allowed to squat here.
This is our simple story. A beginning to an end.
There is an anxiety I feel as I am about to leave the City of Lights. The trip has been a thing of misery. Travel while you are young they say. Live your life to the fullest. You will meet people and remember these moments forever they say. Yet I've met no one. I've just been wandering here, alone, feelings of unrequited romance, heart open to anything, yet all the hearts around me are closed. I don't know why.
And then I see her.
THIN. WHITE. GLASSES. 7/10. Parisian chic, in a demure hipster way that only a thin metropolitan white woman could pull off. She looks like Rachel Leigh Cook from "She's All That" before the makeover, and more red headed than brunette. She is so perfect it is PAINFUL. And most importantly, there is a sadness to her, because she is ALONE. This is a beautiful pale sadness that invokes poetry of Lord Byron or Keats:
THINK not of it, sweet one, so;---
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Any---anywhere.
Do not look so sad, sweet one,---
Sad and fadingly;
Shed one drop then,---it is gone---
O 'twas born to die!
Still so pale? then, dearest, weep;
Weep, I'll count the tears,
And each one shall be a bliss
For thee in after years.
Brighter has it left thine eyes
Than a sunny rill;
And thy whispering melodies
Are tenderer still.
Yet---as all things mourn awhile
At fleeting blisses,
E'en let us too! but be our dirge
A dirge of kisses.
She is reading a book. Houellebecq. Checking her phone. An android, not an iphone! Did someone stand her up?? She is sad and alone, and SO AM I. Little pockets of acne scars. Beautiful little flaws that fool you into thinking that she is on your level. It's these flaws specifically, that make her stand out, that make you want to die for her. At this moment, consumed by her radiance, I AM IN LOVE. I don't care if I don't know anything about her. I WANT TO MARRY HER. TO BE WITH HER FOREVER. I start pacing to her.
I already know her name. Alizée. I call herself that in my mind in that moment because "Allez-y"-- go on! This is my moment. My heart is racing. I sweat palpably. The most heart racing walk in my life. Standing three and a half feet away from her. I clear my throat and close my eyes nervously.
But when I opened them, HE came like a reaper, swooping from behind. Alizée turned to him like a giggling Disney star. And then they kissed like dreamers. And I died right then and there. He stood up to reveal his towering height. Blonde, blue eyed, gaellic with the face of Alain Delon. A deathly weight sank in my chest like a bullet, I stumble back slowly, painfully. He must have been 6'5, did it matter? I was a dwarf right in that moment anyway. He looked into her eyes as happy as a prince, and she looked at his, as happy as a princess. TWO BEAUTIFUL WHITE PEOPLE IN LOVE. And I am a balding 5'2 indian janitor meant to die alone.
There is no greater hell than watching perfect loves bloom all around you in the heart of Paris. A perfect love YOU WILL NEVER HAVE. Blooming is for whites. Shitskins are for fertilizer.
As they turned their head to my direction, I immediately started pacing away furiously like a coward. I can see them smirking at me in the periphery. And then they looked into each other's eyes again, to eskimo kiss, and start boarding the train.
They probably thought of me as some unfortunate loner, about to ask for change. Maybe if they vote against Le Pen guys like me would "do better."
Stung in pain, I squat down to breathe, but a gay policeman came by two minutes later to rudely tell me "Allez-y," go on, I'm not allowed to squat here.
This is our simple story. A beginning to an end.
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