Mes lettres ✉️

Ok This one's mine. 😁I was tired ..dass why it sounds like that .

له سه ری بێده نگی ناوی تۆ ده نووسم، ناوی تۆ ده نووسم، له سه ر نه بوونی نخوازیاو له سه ر ته نیایی ڕووت له سه ر هنگاوه کانی مه رگ ناوی تۆ ده نووسم، له سه ر هێوا یێک ڕزگار له بێر ناوی تۆ ده نووسم، به هێزی تنیا یه ک وشه دێسان ژیانم ده ست پێ ده که مه وه و من له داییک بووم بۆ ئه وه ی بتناسم، هه تاکۆ ناوت بڵیم؛ ئازادی

J'écris ton nom,Paul Éluard ✉️ @enoyedanslevide

Hello my lovelies 💓 I'm bored out of my mind and also in mood for a bit of writing. So lets play a game...Give me a title or a few words and I'll write a poem based on the few words supplied... Thank you ever so much

Paintings by Swedish painter Nick Alm for the artist's third solo exhibition titled "Portals and Places. ✉️ @enoyedanslevide

🎼@enoyedanslevide

Hey all, I don't really feel like reading these anymore. Work has been draining me both mentally and physically. Anyway, I know it's long, but if you read it, let me know what you think. And si quelqu’un veut le lire à voix haute à ma place, n’hésitez pas

El sol se alza detrás de las montañas, el cielo teñido de azul profundo y rojo violáceo al amanecer. Una lágrima se forma en mis ojos, cargada de ternura, asombro, nostalgia y resignación. Como yo, no caerá; es hora de seguir adelante. Levanto un pie para el primer paso, luego el segundo lo sigue. Paso a paso, me aparto de ti. El suelo es firme, seco, y siento su dureza en cada vibración de mis pasos. Avanzo, desgarrándome de los recuerdos, sintiendo el peso, pero sin mirar atrás. Grito al viento mi dolor, lo dejo volar lejos, entre los árboles y los caminos que me esperan. Respiro y sigo adelante, hasta que mis pasos se vuelven ligeros y nuevos horizontes se abren ante mí. Nueve pasos, diez pasos, ya no estoy allí. ✉️ @enoyedanslevide

« Il faut que je change mes draps. » Je suis lové dans mon doux fauteuil, regardant l’extérieur enroulé de chaleur. J’ai le temps et l’espace, je vais pouvoir changer mes draps et nettoyer mon appartement. Des larmes coulent sur mes joues, chaudes et pleines de sens. Je n’ai pas du tout envie de changer mes draps ni de nettoyer mon sol. Parce que je sais que c’est toi que je vais laver avec. Toi, tu n’existes déjà plus et ce sont tes dernières traces, physiques, imprimées dans mon monde. Même s’il ne reste plus ne serait-ce qu’un effluve de toi dans ces draps.Même si tes traces de pas ont été recouvertes. Je n’arrive pas à t’enlever, mettre en boule ces souvenirs de toi et tout laver.Je n’arrive pas à effacer chaque pas qui a été fait. Alors à défaut de toi, je garde ton fantôme. Je continue de dormir dans ces draps sales et à regarder tout ce qui traîne sur mon sol jusqu’au jour où, je le sais très bien, je trouverai stupide de marcher sur ce sol sale et où, spontanément, je prendrai un balai pour tout effacer. Ce jour où, en enlevant chaque coin de mon drap, je rigolerai de moi-même et de ce sens que je mets dans des choses aussi insignifiantes qu’un bout de tissu. Ce jour où tu deviendras simplement une personne que j’ai connu. Une personne comme tout le monde. Le romantisme me fascine par ce pouvoir qu’il a de façonner notre vision. Bientôt, ces draps et cette poussière n’auront plus de sens d’être là. Bientôt, garder un lien avec un individu qui n’existe plus dans ma vie me semblera complètement absurde. Parce qu’en vrai, on le sait : ce qui donne de la valeur, ce qui rend beaux les moments, les objets et les personnes, c’est le regard qui est posé dessus. ✉️ @enoyedanslevide

« Il faut que je change mes draps. » Une phrase toute simple du quotidien que je fais tourner dans ma tête comme un rappel. Il y a un peu plus d'une semaine, je me suis lancée cette phrase pour la première fois. Cette première fois pour m'informer que j’arrivais vers la fin de la période durant laquelle j’aime dormir dedans. Après un certain temps, je n’aime plus mes draps, trop imprégnés, trop usés, trop de nuits vécues. Ils ne m’apportent plus le confort que j’aime tant et avec eux celui de mon sommeil… je sais alors qu’il faut que je change mes draps. « Il faut que je change mes draps. » J’ai travaillé tout le samedi. Je n’ai pas fait le ménage non plus d’ailleurs, mon sol commence à avoir un peu de poussière qui traine, des feuilles par ci, autre chose par là. Oui, j’ai prévu de m’en occuper mais je n’en fais pas non plus une priorité. J’ai pour principe de ne pas faire de mes règles de vie une condition absolue car j’aime me laisser cette flexibilité de ne pas m’oppresser avec une rigueur de vie, aussi bienveillante soit-elle. J’ai travaillé toute la journée, alors mes affaires vont trainer un peu, mon sol restera sale un jour de plus et je dormirai dans mes vieux draps ce soir. « Il faut que je change mes draps. » Me dis-je en me levant ce matin de dimanche, en ouvrant la fenêtre. Le lit complètement éventré est livré à l’air frais du matin. Ce n’est pas très utile, d’ailleurs, d’aérer ce lit que je vais changer, mais bon, l’habitude probablement. Je fais mon café et pendant que l’eau chauffe je regarde mes pieds me rappelant par la même occasion qu’il faut que je nettoie mon sol. J’ai prévu de travailler toute la journée, je m’installe doucement à mon bureau et les heures commencent à défiler. J’aime faire mon ménage le dimanche soir, après une longue journée à me prélasser autant que possible dans les heures qui s’allongent et s’étirent, m’offrant leur doux intérieur pour que je me blottisse en son creux. Souvent, aux alentours de 18h, un élan d’énergie s’empare de moi m’amenant à tout nettoyer, ranger, récurer pendant deux heures et obtenir ainsi les conditions idéales à un dimanche soir, transition parfaite entre une semaine qui se termine et une nouvelle qui s’apprête à commencer. Ce dimanche là je décide de déroger à la règle et d’aller au cinéma. J’aurai pu faire mon ménage avant de partir mais il s’avère que je m’étais occupée à autre chose. Je m’en chargerai demain. « Il faut que je change mes draps. » Cette phrase revient, telle une petite lumière clignotante dans un coin de ma tête, tout au long de la semaine. Une longue semaine, des choses qui s’ajoutent, d’autres qui se suppriment et encore et toujours le temps qui défile… seule certitude absolue dans ce monde aléatoire et chaotique. Ce temps avec lequel je peux jouer, que je peux étirer, raccourcir, parfois même dans mes moments de plus belle maîtrise : arrêter… mais qui restera ad vitam aeternam son propre maître. Ce temps, donc, passe et s’empile encore et toujours. Je n’ai toujours pas changé mes draps et je n’ai toujours pas fait le ménage. C’est vendredi soir, je reçois dans ma maison et, encore une fois, j’étais à droite et à gauche faisant que je rentre juste avant que mes invités n’arrivent. Ce n’est pas très grave je m’en occuperai demain. Un nouveau week-end commence plein de promesses, de moments et de temps. ✉️ @enoyedanslevide

I’m fascinated by the power of romanticism to shape our perception. Soon, these sheets and this dust won’t mean a thing. Soon, holding on to a connection with someone who no longer exists in my life will seem completely absurd. Because, truly, we know: what gives moments, objects, and people their value, what makes them beautiful, is the gaze that rests upon them. ✉️ @enoyedanslevide

"I need to change my sheets." A simple, everyday phrase I repeat in my head like a reminder. A little over a week ago, I said this to myself for the first time. The first time, informing myself that I was nearing the end of the period where I enjoy sleeping in them. After a certain time, I no longer like my sheets—too worn, too infused with countless nights. They no longer bring me the comfort I cherish, and with that, the peace of my sleep. I know then, that I need to change my sheets. "I need to change my sheets." I worked all Saturday. I didn’t clean either; the floor is starting to gather a bit of dust, leaves scattered here and there, other things lying around. Yes, I planned to deal with it, but it’s not a priority. I hold to the principle of not turning my life rules into rigid, absolute conditions; I like giving myself the flexibility not to feel pressured by routines, however well-intentioned they may be. I worked all day, so my things will stay scattered, the floor will remain dirty for another day, and tonight I will sleep in my old sheets. "I need to change my sheets." I tell myself this as I get up on Sunday morning, opening the window. The bed, completely rumpled, is exposed to the morning air. It’s not very useful to air out a bed I’m going to change, but it’s probably just habit. I make my coffee, and as the water heats up, I glance down at my feet, reminding myself that I need to clean the floor. I planned to work all day, settling slowly at my desk as the hours begin to fly by. I enjoy doing my cleaning on Sunday evenings after a long day spent stretching out the hours as much as possible, letting them cradle me in their gentle span. Often, around 6 p.m., a burst of energy sweeps over me, and I clean, organize, scrub for a couple of hours, creating the perfect transition between the end of one week and the beginning of a new one. This Sunday, I decide to break the rule and go to the cinema. I could have cleaned before leaving, but I got caught up in something else. I’ll take care of it tomorrow. "I need to change my sheets." That phrase comes back, like a small blinking light in the corner of my mind, throughout the week. A long week, filled with new tasks added and others removed, while time relentlessly moves forward... the only true certainty in this unpredictable, chaotic world. Time, which I can toy with, stretch, compress, and at my most skillful moments, even pause... but which remains forever its own master. And so time passes and accumulates. I still haven’t changed my sheets, and I still haven’t cleaned. It’s Friday night, and we're having people over at my house. Once again, I’ve been running around, and I return just before my guests arrive. It’s not a big deal; I’ll take care of it tomorrow. A new weekend begins, full of promises, moments, and time. "I need to change my sheets." I’m curled up in my cozy armchair, watching the outside world wrapped in warmth. I have the time and the space; I could change my sheets and clean my apartment. Tears slide down my cheeks, warm and meaningful. I don’t want to change my sheets or clean the floor at all. Because I know that doing so means erasing you. You, who already no longer exists, leaving behind only these last traces, physical remnants printed in my world. Even if there isn’t a hint of your scent left in those sheets. Even if your footprints have long been covered. I can’t bring myself to remove them, to crumple up those memories and wash everything away. I can’t bring myself to erase every step that was taken. So, in the absence of you, I keep your ghost. I continue to sleep in these dirty sheets and stare at everything scattered on the floor until the day comes—because I know it will—when I’ll find it silly to walk on a dirty floor and, spontaneously, pick up a broom to sweep it clean. The day when, as I peel back the corners of the sheets, I’ll laugh at myself and the meaning I attach to something as insignificant as a piece of fabric. The day when you become just someone I once knew. Just someone, like anyone else. ✉️ @enoyedanslevide

"I need to change my sheets." A simple, everyday phrase I repeat in my head like a reminder. A little over a week ago, I said this to myself for the first time. The first time, informing myself that I was nearing the end of the period where I enjoy sleeping in them. After a certain time, I no longer like my sheets—too worn, too infused with countless nights. They no longer bring me the comfort I cherish, and with that, the peace of my sleep. I know then, that I need to change my sheets. "I need to change my sheets." I worked all Saturday. I didn’t clean either; the floor is starting to gather a bit of dust, leaves scattered here and there, other things lying around. Yes, I planned to deal with it, but it’s not a priority. I hold to the principle of not turning my life rules into rigid, absolute conditions; I like giving myself the flexibility not to feel pressured by routines, however well-intentioned they may be. I worked all day, so my things will stay scattered, the floor will remain dirty for another day, and tonight I will sleep in my old sheets. "I need to change my sheets." I tell myself this as I get up on Sunday morning, opening the shutters and the window. The bed, completely rumpled, is exposed to the morning air. It’s not very useful to air out a bed I’m going to change, but it’s probably just habit. I make my coffee, and as the water heats up, I glance down at my feet, reminding myself that I need to clean the floor. I planned to work all day, settling slowly at my desk as the hours begin to fly by. I enjoy doing my cleaning on Sunday evenings after a long day spent stretching out the hours as much as possible, letting them cradle me in their gentle span. Often, around 6 p.m., a burst of energy sweeps over me, and I clean, organize, scrub for a couple of hours, creating the perfect transition between the end of one week and the beginning of a new one. This Sunday, I decide to break the rule and go to the cinema. I could have cleaned before leaving, but I got caught up in something else. I’ll take care of it tomorrow. "I need to change my sheets." That phrase comes back, like a small blinking light in the corner of my mind, throughout the week. A long week, filled with new tasks added and others removed, while time relentlessly moves forward... the only true certainty in this unpredictable, chaotic world. Time, which I can toy with, stretch, compress, and at my most skillful moments, even pause... but which remains forever its own master. And so time passes and accumulates. I still haven’t changed my sheets, and I still haven’t cleaned. It’s Friday night, and I’m hosting at my house. Once again, I’ve been running around, and I return just before my guests arrive. It’s not a big deal; I’ll take care of it tomorrow. A new weekend begins, full of promises, moments, and time. "I need to change my sheets." I’m curled up in my cozy armchair, watching the outside world wrapped in warmth. I have the time and the space; I could change my sheets and clean my apartment. Tears slide down my cheeks, warm and meaningful. I don’t want to change my sheets or clean the floor at all. Because I know that doing so means erasing you. You, who already no longer exists, leaving behind only these last traces, physical remnants printed in my world. Even if there isn’t a hint of your scent left in those sheets. Even if your footprints have long been covered. I can’t bring myself to remove them, to crumple up those memories and wash everything away. I can’t bring myself to erase every step that was taken. So, in the absence of you, I keep your ghost. I continue to sleep in these dirty sheets and stare at everything scattered on the floor until the day comes—because I know it will—when I’ll find it silly to walk on a dirty floor and, spontaneously, pick up a broom to sweep it clean. The day when, as I peel back the corners of the sheets, I’ll laugh at myself and the meaning I attach to something as insignificant as a piece of fabric. The day when you become just someone I once knew. Just someone, like anyone else. I’m fascinated by

"I need to change my sheets." A simple, everyday phrase I repeat in my head like a reminder. A little over a week ago, I said this to myself for the first time. The first time, informing myself that I was nearing the end of the period where I enjoy sleeping in them. After a certain time, I no longer like my sheets—too worn, too infused with countless nights. They no longer bring me the comfort I cherish, and with that, the peace of my sleep. I know then, that I need to change my sheets. "I need to change my sheets." I worked all Saturday. I didn’t clean either; the floor is starting to gather a bit of dust, leaves scattered here and there, other things lying around. Yes, I planned to deal with it, but it’s not a priority. I hold to the principle of not turning my life rules into rigid, absolute conditions; I like giving myself the flexibility not to feel pressured by routines, however well-intentioned they may be. I worked all day, so my things will stay scattered, the floor will remain dirty for another day, and tonight I will sleep in my old sheets. "I need to change my sheets." I tell myself this as I get up on Sunday morning, opening the window. The bed, completely rumpled, is exposed to the morning air. It’s not very useful to air out a bed I’m going to change, but it’s probably just habit. I make my coffee, and as the water heats up, I glance down at my feet, reminding myself that I need to clean the floor. I planned to work all day, settling slowly at my desk as the hours begin to fly by. I enjoy doing my cleaning on Sunday evenings after a long day spent stretching out the hours as much as possible, letting them cradle me in their gentle span. Often, around 6 p.m., a burst of energy sweeps over me, and I clean, organize, scrub for a couple of hours, creating the perfect transition between the end of one week and the beginning of a new one. This Sunday, I decide to break the rule and go to the cinema. I could have cleaned before leaving, but I got caught up in something else. I’ll take care of it tomorrow. "I need to change my sheets." That phrase comes back, like a small blinking light in the corner of my mind, throughout the week. A long week, filled with new tasks added and others removed, while time relentlessly moves forward... the only true certainty in this unpredictable, chaotic world. Time, which I can toy with, stretch, compress, and at my most skillful moments, even pause... but which remains forever its own master. And so time passes and accumulates. I still haven’t changed my sheets, and I still haven’t cleaned. It’s Friday night, and we're having people over at my house. Once again, I’ve been running around, and I return just before my guests arrive. It’s not a big deal; I’ll take care of it tomorrow. A new weekend begins, full of promises, moments, and time. "I need to change my sheets." I’m curled up in my cozy armchair, watching the outside world wrapped in warmth. I have the time and the space; I could change my sheets and clean my apartment. Tears slide down my cheeks, warm and meaningful. I don’t want to change my sheets or clean the floor at all. Because I know that doing so means erasing you. You, who already no longer exists, leaving behind only these last traces, physical remnants printed in my world. Even if there isn’t a hint of your scent left in those sheets. Even if your footprints have long been covered. I can’t bring myself to remove them, to crumple up those memories and wash everything away. I can’t bring myself to erase every step that was taken. So, in the absence of you, I keep your ghost. I continue to sleep in these dirty sheets and stare at everything scattered on the floor until the day comes—because I know it will—when I’ll find it silly to walk on a dirty floor and, spontaneously, pick up a broom to sweep it clean. The day when, as I peel back the corners of the sheets, I’ll laugh at myself and the meaning I attach to some

New paintings by Swedish painter Nick Alm for the artist's third solo exhibition titled "Portals and Places." ✉️ @enoyedanslevide