hiatus
i've grown a bit tired of how shallow this blog might look and the way i post on here overall. i almost can't relate to anything anymore and it kind of sickens me, so i guess i won't be so present on here anymore (at least for now); i need to get my shit together and i don't think that this is going to be easy.
on the other hand, you can find me on here, it's very messy, but at least i don't feel chained. my previous username is now going to be something more personal: i want a place where i can post my writings. those will be in french for the most part, but also english, arabic (and soon in german too? hah), so do not, at any point, feel forced to follow if you hate text posts, especially those in a language that you do not speak.
and of course, i'm still on indéracinable with the lovely Ilaf.
Anonymous asked:
Why dont you post poc you racist bitch
What the heck I'm not 'white' myself so go fuck yourself.
31 juillet 2014, 8h49 - Café Paul, Rabat.
Drôle de sensation que de sortir à la lumière du jour après tant de temps. Mes tempes vont exploser, les gens me regardent d’une drôle de manière, directement dans les yeux, une pointe de crainte dans le regard comme s’ils s’attendaient à ce que je m’évanouisse sur-le-champ - chose qui ne m’étonnerait pas moi-même. Le serveur est aimable et a des lèvres étonnamment roses, des cils très fournis qui tranchent avec sa toque immaculée. J’avale un nouveau comprimé.
Les détails rejaillissent avec une incroyable acuité: les cinq glaçons dans le verre embué, leur choc contre mes incisives et leur répercussion dans ma tête, le chuintement des tartines de mon voisin qui craquent, l’écusson brodé sur le cardigan d’une femme mûre, les bribes d’une conversation téléphonique, le frou-frou du papier glacé des pages d’un magazine que l’on tourne, le vrombissement d’un moteur au loin… Je fume cigarette sur cigarette, mon voisin se décale légèrement en arquant les sourcils pour éviter la fumée. Il fait légèrement froid. C’est bon.
Ceci serait une belle journée pour mourir.
'Une passion pour Jeanne d'Arc'. Stella Tennant by Paolo Roversi for Vogue Paris, February 1994
Your voice sounds completely different in different languages. It alters your personality somehow. I don’t think people get the same feeling from you. The rhythm changes. Because the rhythm of the language is different, it changes your inner rhythm and that changes how you process everything.
When I hear myself speak French, I look at myself differently. Certain aspects will feel closer to the way I feel or the way I am and others won’t. I like that—to tour different sides of yourself. I often find when looking at people who are comfortable in many languages, they’re more comfortable talking about emotional stuff in a certain language or political stuff in another and that’s really interesting, how people relate to those languages.
François Arnaud for Interview Magazine.
The tree of life (2011), Terrence Malick.
Anonymous asked:
how old are you?
I'm twenty.
froideurs reblogged
Dismantling the organism has never meant killing yourself, but rather opening the body to connections that presuppose an entire assemblage, circuits, conjunctions, levels and thresholds, passages and distributions of intensity, and territories and deterritorialization measured with the craft of a surveyor.
Deleuze & Guattari
'Story'. Tanga Moreau by Peter Lindbergh for Vogue Italia, September 1997
froideurs reblogged
The Jesus and Mary Chain || Sometimes Always
She:I gave you all I had I gave you good and bad I gave but you just threw it back He:I won’t get on my knees Don’t make me do that please I’ve been away but now I’m back She:Don’t be too sure of that What makes you sure of that You went away you can’t come back He:I walked away from you I hurt you through and through Aw honey give me one more chance She:Aw you’re a lucky son Lucky son of a gun You went away, you went away You went away but now youre back He:I got down on my knees And then I begged you please I always knew you’d take me back
Anonymous asked:
mystérieuse
why thanks i guess?
froideurs reblogged
and what about belonging?
I have not yet found a place to be..
…so i am here
the evidence of a lifetime spent longing.
Tapiwa Mugabe, be(longing).
Erin O'Connor by Tetsuharu Kubota
froideurs reblogged
A cigarette that bears a lipstick’s traces An airline ticket to romantic places And still my heart has wings These foolish things remind me of you