will you still love me tomorrow?

I thought I’d feel relaxed by now.

But sometimes event the South of France can’t tame a restless soul.

I try to relax. I have another drink, eat well, listen to music and speak with old friends.

But I go to bed lonely, wake up with a hangover, and can’t seem to loosen these tense post-Paris bones.

I didn’t expect to feel this way. My time here is short and I feel pressured to enjoy it, but I’m still catching my breath.

Meanwhile, I’m also trying to keep my heart in tact.

My old flame, who fell into my arms in Paris, has left me to wilt. He has a girlfriend, and rather than talk about it, is avoiding me like wildfire. My heart shrivels up inside every time he turns his back to me, not because of love, but because of feeling unloved.

And yet life goes on in the South of France, a place I have claimed as my personal paradise. The weather isn’t as hot-and neither is my sex life-but beauty still clings to every sunflower and dirty road.

I can still lose myself in the reggae music, playing out in a field, a mass of teenagers sprawled out around a liquor table. The vodka doesn’t hit me like it used to, and I ache for the pleasure of being sober, a simple glass of wine, and the acquired elegance I’m trying to call my own.

I can still walk these streets clinging to my mother, as we giggle and stumble over cobblestones, our voices ringing through the town square.

I can still walk into the Tuesday market, make small- talk with grinning vendors, and feel at home among the crates of dirty vegetables and tables of foie gras.

I stand among beauty and must gather my strength for the days to come. Remember to hold my head high like I learnt on the streets of Paris, no matter how many times I slipped and fell. Remember to speak my mind like a true French woman, instead of taming my thoughts with liquor and sugar coating my words.

I’ve come a long way, and I have to realize that there’s no stopping me now.