Littoral

a march of mourning. they carry the names in cloth, the weight of what has been done. downtown tries to pretend it’s still normal. but we are past normal. this is not protest. this is a procession for the dead.

on the way to a house practice. air heavy with smoke, with memory, with movement. we laughed anyway. pointed. posed.

played around with a new category—something shifted. in the body. in the breath. family feels like that sometimes: silly and sacred at once.

they call it wisdom but it reads like distance.

pages upon pages to say: perhaps you are real but not yet certain. perhaps you belong but only if it doesn’t make others uncomfortable.

they write of tension like it’s an external thing. they measure discomfort but not whose it is.

they gather everything but us.

no affected voice in the room, no hand in the margins, no breath in the footnotes.

somewhere, a child tries to speak and finds their name missing from the glossary.

walked here with oriol. afternoon sun too bright to ignore. the sign said bonjour like it meant something, but i was already thinking about leaving.

met with malica this week— potential postdoc supervisor at beniba. submitted the queen’s predoc application too. if it all goes through, this might be my last summer here.

the city looked soft in the light— like it didn’t know i was saying goodbye.

drift doesn’t ask for arrival. just movement. just the soft ache of being somewhere you already know how to leave.

i didn’t walk. i sat in the first row, just close enough to feel the beat in my chest

the floor glowed— light from above sharp and circular caught on the sweat of a shoulder mid-dip. it stayed there longer than expected.

i wasn’t walking. but i was inside it. inside the noise, the heat, the charge. inside the circle of people screaming each other into aliveness.

and that’s the thing. this isn’t just spectacle. it’s communion. it’s how we stay legible to each other.

in the light of our own making. again. until the lights cut until the floor clears until the next time. again.

it started slowly, like most good things. paul and i drifted through vieux-montréal, not in a hurry, not quite anchored. work came in waves—open tabs, notes half written, a reply sent too late but still meaningful. the afternoon stretched without agenda. there’s a softness in being accompanied without being watched.

the streets felt unfamiliar in a familiar way. like they’d been repainted since last week but forgot to dry. a man singing to himself passed us near saint-paul. no one looked twice.

by the time we reached frontenac, the air had changed. just enough rain to make you notice. just enough light to feel like something was ending.

we said goodbye without ceremony. no need for it.

i kept walking east, alone. the drizzle softened the sounds of the city. my breath felt louder than usual. there’s something about walking in the rain that makes your thoughts feel more like weather than noise.

the lights on sherbrooke flickered early. someone had chalked a heart onto the sidewalk that was already dissolving.

i didn’t take a photo. it didn’t need to last.

i just kept moving. not away, not toward. just through.

no caption needed. the city already said it.

after the rain, the colours feel staged. the village waits to be repopulated. someone forgot their joy on a wet bench.

Y'a de quoi qu'on a perdu. On sait pu comment disparaître. Pas juste laisser faire les réseaux. Pas juste se cacher dans ses stories close friends. Je parle de disparaître pour vrai. À l'ancienne.

Pas pour fuir. Pour respirer. Pour protéger quelque chose de précieux. Pour guérir là où personne nous regarde.

Parce que nous, on a toujours dû savoir comment disparaître. Comment pas trop se faire voir. Comment être là sans être là. Même quand on nous l'a jamais montré, on le sent pareil. Comme une habitude qu'on n'a pas apprise, mais qu'on porte quand même.

Aujourd'hui, on nous demande d'être partout. D'être pédagogiques, inspirants, brandés, disponibles. Pis on sait ce que ça fait, être trop visible. Le regard qui fixe là où ça fait mal. Les mains qui prennent sans demander. Le corps qu'on nomme avant qu'on ait le temps de le protéger.

Moi j'veux être une légende de coin de rue. Une chanson qu'on connaît mais qu'on trouve pu. Un billet froissé dans une poche qu'on ouvre des années plus tard. Un “je pense qu'iel organise quelque chose…” Une odeur familière dans un corridor. Un regard complice qui dure juste ce qu'il faut. Une vibe qu'on peut pas documenter, un nom dans une bibliothèque qu'on chuchote plutôt qu'on partage.

J'veux pas que ma joie devienne un reel. J'veux pas que ma peine soit un post liké. J'veux que mes transformations aient lieu dans le creux des bras de mon monde, pas dans l'œil de ceux qui consomment.

Disparaître, tsé. Une tactique floue, une danse de brume. Une manière de survivre, de se préserver, de se retrouver. Un savoir qu'on porte malgré les silences, transmis sans manuel, mais gravé quelque part en nous.

Pis si un jour tu me recroises, sache que j'ai pas disparu pour rien. Que j'ai guéri loin du regard.

Cherche-moi pas trop fort.

accountability, laughter, cucumbers on the table. ballroom business, mid-afternoon.