A Night in Cannes

I don't know anything about Cannes. As far as I know, it's relevant to artful short screenings which are attended by very well-known actors and other celebrities of the like. It's around the time of the event and I had a dream I attended it.

At 2:58AM in San Diego, it's 11:58 in Paris. I write poetry from time to time as well as prose. Once I find the itch to delve into this long stretch of endless pixels and allow my fingers to type away on the keyboard, naturally, I'm at a mere loss. The more time passes by the more my thoughts fade, and then I think how I should've scratched these moments on paper, or my own damn skin with a pen. My best friend tells me she's felt the same way. She can't go on in the day without feeling like she needs this impulse to write it out. Maybe I am half a libra. I read to her my poem about last summer and she told me that my writings are beautiful. But I thought to myself that I'm not the girl that graduated with a degree in script or English lit.

I met the most selfless, most kind girl tonight. 21 was the age I thought I'd be beyond perfect. But 21 is also the age that's hurt the most. My hands look different, they look older. And they aren't as thought about as they were at 17. They're not strange anymore, and they don't provoke thoughts about how they're the most beautiful body part and how people need to learn to appreciate them more.

A woman saw me at a bathroom in a bar. She had glitter in her waterline, wore platform heels, and approached the sink with bell-sleeved limbs. She stared, and proceeded to tell me she understood me because she was turning 35 that night. The night before my father's birthday, a taurus, I felt like I was taken care of individuals I had barely known; yet whose hearts were more open than I ever bothered knowing was possible.

Earlier today, I opened myself up to a fellow coworker. He told me about his dreams with a shine in his eye and I knew from that moment that he knew exactly what he was in for but he was well aware that nothing is impossible.
Thoughts are cascading and my writings won't ever be brilliant. But I do, need to let you know, my dear reader, that this is something I needed at this moment. And if you have bothered to take the time to read these useless thoughts then I appreciate it more than you could know.

Bisous

Alana O.