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La Ville de Québec

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Sitting in my dorm room on the edge of Trois-Rivières. The thermometer currently reads 32.0 degrees Celsius. All the shades are closed; Schubert and extra-iced orange juice from a thermos are my only companions. I cannot even attempt to make sense of the last 7 days.

A boy of questionable morals and ambiguous womanizing ways. An attention-seeking girl with a devastating sort of vulgarity. A reserved, self-righteous boy from the Maritimes. A timid, dreamy girl who transforms into a nightmare of mothers all over the world with a few drops of ethanol coursing through her system. A boy who lost his head. A girl who loved men a little more than the rest. A boy who loved women a little more than the rest. Et puis, moi-même.

The precarious boundary between spontaneity and inebriation is beginning to disintegrate. Everything appears farcical, out-of-this-world,  a scene from the brushes of Magritte or Dali.  Did I really clamber up and down a steep hill under the influence of Absolut, then watch in horror and fascination, as two friends shared an intimate moment in the stairwells before me? Did I really impress him with my appropriated confidence and recklessness? Did he really confide to me in the forest path that somehow, amidst all the drunken antics of my roommates and my relative sobriety, I stood out from the rest?

Est-ce il seulement un rêve?

Revisited a folkloric Chinese film from a few years past. Cheesy, overwrought plot and stilted acting aside, the character of the fox demon, strange as it may seem, struck a chord with me.

Sometimes, perhaps during one of my midnight promenades along the dyke, with none but the rhythmic lull of waves and monotonic crunch of gravel for company, I cannot help but ponder if my true self is that of some preternatural, otherworldly being. There is always the lingering sense that I could reach up to my forehead, peel back the layer of pleasantries and social etiquette to reveal the unfathomable creature beneath it all.

Surely, it must be a terribly lonely, self-perplexed, misunderstood creature, constantly peering out at the myriad of human routines and emotions, playing along nimbly but not comprehending a thing. Oh, how it yearns to be human, to be born with a fully functional heart, to reach out to a fellow human without the fear of rejection and reproach.

How it yearns, yearns for love. But, how could one desire without perception and comprehension of the notion itself?

Lacrimosa
Lacrimosa dies illa
Qua resurget ex favilla
Judicandus homo reus.

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