I might not be meant to write ‘Les Misérables’ (and that’s okay)

When I started writing this paper, I didn’t know what exactly it was that I wanted to talk about. I guess we all have those moments in our lives –at least I frequently do– when you feel that you just have to let out something– but what is it? What exactly have I been thinking about? What were the dreams I was having before waking up and forgetting about them? What has been eating at me for a few days?

There comes this time when you’re used to writing a lot, and you sit at your breakfast table, mouth full of cereals, and suddenly it dawns on you: today I have to write about something, or else– what? I’m going to explode? No, no, it seems far too dramatic, you don’t feel that desperate. But either way something will happen if you keep quiet.

Now, if you’re a sensible person, you sigh and think, ‘I have other things to do with my life, like doing my homeworks, the laundry, cleaning a bit’, and you settle on not listening to your dramatic little self. Or, if you’re like me, you climb back into your bed, grab your computer and start to write.

I told you: I don’t know what to talk about. And you may have noticed that since the beginning of this essay, I haven’t talked substancially about anything. Then that’s settled: let’s write about not writing about anything.

It may seem vain, at first; well, it may seem vain for a very long time. As a highschooler, all I wanted to write about were complicated stories, novels with intricate plots and political messages, at least a hundred pages long — no matter I never completed any of those. What I did complete were small stories: my favourite characters hanging out, drinking some tea, looking at the stars, for instance. Or an elaborate, albeit synthetic, essay about an interesting villain. Or, from time to time, a piece featuring my friends, set in some ridiculous situation and written to make them laugh.

Looking back, it seems that I was writing about something, multiple things even. But bear in mind that my ambition was to write the novel that would shake the 21rst century, a new Les Misérables — harder, better, faster, gayer. (That last part was of primordial importance to me.) What I was writing seemed like nothing of importance. It seemed like it was about nothing at all. Who cared about two Hetalia characters having a slumber party? Who cared about my little fantasies of friendship when Monuments™ were being written?

The answer surprised me: a lot of people seemed to care. I had published my stories (all fanfictions at this time) on websites, and they had had some success! I had even had a few dithyrambic reviews, some of them that made me cry (because I was in high school and desperate for attention, as one does). It seemed that what I considered to be nothing ended up being something.

And that was when my writing started to change: I stopped being self-conscious of caring about the details, the little things no one else remarks and no one else wants to talk about. I stopped wanting to write for other people to be awed, and I started to write for me, things that made me happy. The fact that I had been writing on the Internet for about two years was freeing: before that, I had mostly been writing for people to be proud of me. My parents, my grandmother. None of these ‘real life people’ were interested in my fanfictions. The only person in my life that knew about my fanfictions was me. The only person that could be proud of me was me.

And as I found out, I was the only one that could write these stories the exact way I needed to read them. The only person that could help me enjoy those little things, those little nothings, was me.

I believe writing about ‘nothing’ is important. As well as talking about ‘nothing’ with your friends, or watching videos you already watched 15 times. You need to take it slow. You need to vent sometimes. Not everything has to be of crucial importance. In fact, life is made of sweet nothings. No one lives like a YA novel hero all the time, focused on a task, a duty to save the universe. The consumption society urges us to always live more, want more, ask for more, (pay for more). But I believe we have overlooked a simple truth: humans are not meant to live grandiloquently.

We find solace in little things. We find solace in nothings. They seep through our cracks and make life worth living. Walking down a pavement and noticing a flower coming out of a drain: this is life. Reading the Little Prince and crying about the snake: this is life. Laying down next to a friend in silence for two hours and finding comfort in their breath pattern: this is life. Realizing you still know the words of a song: this is life.

And as I finish writing this article, I notice that I finally let out what I needed to say. I still don’t know exactly what is was– surely, nothing of great importance. But it feels good, having it written down. And maybe it feels good to have read it, too. Maybe it’s not that much of a nothing after all.



Mad in Wonderland

On se couche ici

Sous un ciel de fausses étoiles

On a peur des nuits blanches

Et de nos idées noires

On fait tourner l’alcool

Le xanax, un joint

Mélanger, gorgée de café

Habitude démesurée

Si on s’endort sans penser c’est qu’on a gagné

Si on s’endort sans se réveiller

C’est que la guerre est terminée

La vie est un champ de bataille

Qu’on espère toustes quitter

Dans le silence ou la gloire

Pourvu qu’ils ne se souviennent pas qu’ici la terre a été marquée de nos pas

Y a le vide dans nos têtes, le désordre quand on regarde le Styx

Les larmes de Charon ont dû le remplir

On en sent le goût salé depuis nos baignoires rougies

Nos vies sont des champs de bataille

Où on ne peut espérer vaincre

Tu peux toujours nous y rejoindre

Il est dit que c’est moins dur à trois

Dos à…

Voir l’article original 57 mots de plus


in our bedroom after the war
when the sky hangs heavy and clear
the flowers grow out, smell of moor
too big too bright standing too near  

where was it i saw you, again?
where was it you were last alive?

and loud is the room’s emptiness
as are the near-cracks i behold
as the rolling thunders suppress
the shivering in nights you called

“the best thing to ever exist”
when was it you last existed?

when was it, the last time you fled

last time you came back from the dead

in our bedroom after the war
when the sky dives towards us blue
and the sunflowers, yellow hue,
splatter quietly on the floor

i’ll find you again,
and i’ll think:
surviving- we figured the trick.



inspired by Stars’  In Our Bedroom
After The War
 album cover.

in our bedroom after the war



la fumée s’est répandue dans la maison

a frotté ses tentacules contre mon front

poussé les murs laissé des traces d’encre aux fenêtres


tout devient gris gris gris souris

tout devient gris


j’ai mis le feu pour ne plus rien reconnaître

cette maison familière me faisait frissonner

enfin ma carte des lieux est à incompléter




j’ai mis le feu pour que tout sente pareil

que le bois pendant l’été derrière la barrière,

(on est en août les arbres ont l’odeur de la fièvre je m’y perds)


c’était hier c’était la veille

derrière le grand pin une flaque, je me penche

l’image qu’elle me renvoie a la peau trop blanche


(il y avait une présence au fond des bois,

ce n’était pas moi)




je cherche encore mais la fumée m’embrouille l’esprit

je cherche encore mes poumons sont noirs de suie

tout devient-




autre était mon reflet ce jour-là

autre la présence au fond des bois

(dans le silence l’Inconnu écarta la cendre

et m’avala.)



Ecrit pour le concours de ma prépa “Les bouilles lettrées”
Thème : L’autre/le miroir
Consignes : En mettant en lien ces deux notions, vous écrirez un poème de 10-30 lignes ou une nouvelle de 2-3 pages.


écrit pour le défi photo-poésie de fleurdeflocons !


Trois petits pas ont avancé
Lassés de fouler le plancher
Trois petits pas sur l’herbe tendre
Décidant d’oublier la cendre

Sur la ligne de l’horizon
Que l’on accroche à nos talons
La terre et le ciel sont rejoints
Idéal, réalité peints

On dirait un dessin d’enfant
On foule l’herbe jaunissant
Puis les tentures se soulèvent
Et au delà,  

un rêve

un rêve.