After the particularly rough first side of Bitter Love, you discovered a very different vision of love.

Where the previous poem viewed relationships through the lens of disillusionment, Side by Side offers a more nuanced perspective. Love is neither idealised nor rejected. It is simply observed over time, through its highs, its doubts, and its transformations.

Full of messages I never showed you

From the very first lines, the poem opens onto fragmented memories.

The narrator seems to be rummaging through the past as one might open an old chest filled with forgotten keepsakes. Some moments return with remarkable clarity, while others remain incomplete, yet all contribute to the construction of a story that has left a lasting mark.

The image of the burned letters occupies an important place here. It may evoke the regret of a missed opportunity, but it can also suggest an attempt to regain control over an emotion that had become overwhelming. Destroying those messages almost feels like trying to erase the possibility of what they contained.

Then comes a reversal as the loved one reappears precisely when the narrator seems to have given up hope. What once appeared impossible suddenly becomes possible, though not without leaving behind the doubts accumulated along the way.

A story built in reverse

One of the aspects that fascinates me most about this poem is the way the relationship appears to have been constructed. Unlike many romantic narratives, the difficulties do not emerge after the meeting.

The poem suggests that before being able to love freely, the narrator had to contend with circumstances or obstacles beyond his control.

“Powerless against the terms I couldn’t surrender to”

This line alone encapsulates much of the poem’s tension.

The relationship did not unfold naturally or effortlessly. It required time, patience, and probably a certain degree of surrender.

This may be what distinguishes Side by Side most clearly from Bitter Love. Where the first poem portrayed individuals seemingly pursuing an idea of love, this one tells the story of a connection that was not actively sought.

It happened almost despite them, beyond the honeymoon phase. The poem then makes a deliberate choice: it quickly moves past the euphoria of the beginning.

Do you remember?

At first, this question appears to be addressed to the loved one.

Yet it feels equally directed inward.

As though, amid the routines and habits that gradually wear down every relationship, the narrator is attempting to reconnect with the meaning of the journey itself.

Personally, I have always imagined this passage as taking place after an argument or a difficult period.

Not as a questioning of love itself, but as a moment of reflection in which one becomes aware of everything that has been built together.

Like leafing through an old photo album and suddenly realising how far one has come.

Loving across the long term

At its core, Side by Side is not really about the beginning of a love story but more about what remains once the beginning has long since passed.

This is why the poem intentionally maintains a degree of uncertainty. For several passages, the reader may wonder whether the relationship belongs to the present or exists only in memory.

Gradually, however, the clues accumulate, the story did happen and more importantly, it is still happening.

The couple has moved beyond the magic of first beginnings without losing what binds them together. Their relationship rests less on idealisation than on a shared construction, strengthened by time, common experiences, and a mutual willingness to keep moving forward together.

These two poems are particularly meaningful to me because, each in its own way, they tell a true story. Bitter Love reflects the perspective of someone emerging from disappointment and questioning everything he thought he knew about love.

Side by Side belongs to a stage in which the narrator remains clear-sighted, but where his perspective has softened. A stage in which he no longer pursues an ideal, but appreciates what has been patiently built over time.

And you?

If love inevitably changes as the years pass, at what point do we stop chasing the brilliance of the beginning and learn to recognise the quieter value of what remains?

Peace & Bliss,

Aaron.

NOVEMBER 2016

After a few months of getting back into shape and rediscovering the outside world, feeling better in both body and mind, I have the feeling that I am in a hurry to make up for lost time, to meet new people and, hopefully, to meet THE person.

I then decide to return to an old habit: creating a profile for myself on a dating app. But one should not think it is a walk in the park because, while apps seem to make the dating game easier, people often forget to mention how much effort is required to go from being a candidate to being chosen.

It all starts with creating a profile and selecting the photos that go with it.

“This one isn’t bad, but I was heavier back then... Here, I’m on vacation, but you can’t really recognize the place... And here, I’m with friends... Those same friends who are much better-looking than I am. Anyway, these damn dating sites are a bit of a lottery.”

I find one that speaks to me, guitar in hand, with a small black-and-white filter that gives the photo a more mysterious look. It suits me well! But just as I thought I had done the hardest part, I find myself facing the dreaded blank page syndrome when I have to complete my profile description.

“Looking to meet people without any drama.”

Yeah... That’s a bit like sending a résumé and insisting that you’re motivated.

And why not:

“Holder of a bachelor’s degree in sarcasm with a thesis on irony. If you too enjoy overthinking whether the glass is half empty or half full, I invite you to conduct a study on the matter. Kiss.”

It’s lame, but it suits me quite well too. Besides, if I’m going to meet someone, she might as well know that I’m a bit crazy.

And here I am, like every good customer visiting the supermarket of long-distance love, liking profiles, at first very carefully. Well, at least for the first few days, because after a week of matching only with infected bots trying to make me click suspicious links, I quickly switched to another technique: liking everything that came along, like throwing a stone into a pond and watching the ripples afterward.

As it turns out, after a few weeks of patience, I receive a match in return from the profile of a potentially interesting encounter.

— “Hello, dear Miss M, should I conclude from this returned like that you too appreciate these existential questions?”

Not sure the conversation is going to continue after such a questionable opening...

But what do I see? The three dots indicating that she is replying.

— I’m mostly here for the sarcasm and irony!

— Could it be that we attended the same school?

— Maybe... But my thing is mostly attracting creepy people...

— Good heavens, have I already given you that impression?

— That was irony!

I must say that I like this kind of opening. It’s curious how only a few exchanges are enough to know whether a person matches your personality. The way she expresses herself makes me think that there is a certain complexity to her character. We quickly discover a few things in common—movies, video games... A certain connection develops, and I must admit that she intrigues me.

— You’re weird, but less creepy than the last ones I met.

— Oh yeah? What, like complete lunatics?

— Yeah... Not exactly the brightest streetlights on the highway.

— Tell me!

— I’d rather not. The last one became invasive very quickly. I never should have met him, let alone told him where I lived.

— What, did he come throw pebbles at your window during the night?

— Laugh all you want, but when a guy who’s dead drunk stands outside your house to make some dubious declaration of love, it’s a lot less funny.

— Yeah, that’s rough... sorry for the questionable joke. I imagine it wasn’t very funny to go through that.

— No, not really. So now, I’m pretty straightforward. Don’t get your hopes up, I’m not looking for a boyfriend, and above all, I don’t give out my address!

— Are you here to have fun?

— Not that either. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t feel like dating sites are for me. I prefer real life.

— More the type to see what happens without any specific plan?

— Actually, I just want to talk to people. I think I’m feeling a little lonely at the moment.

— Yet you seem like someone worth getting to know.

— That’s because you don’t know me yet.

It is curiously then that I realize how much what seems most inaccessible is what most makes you want to conquer it. This mysterious side that she subtly puts forward has an effect on me; she intrigues me.

For several weeks, we talk a little every day. More and more, she arouses my interest and I quickly adopt a harmful behavior, out of pure emotional dependency after all those years of isolation—a behavior of which I was not fully aware at the time. I am talking about the savior role, playing the knight of the “lost souls.”

Although she remains firm in her position, I manage to convince her to meet me by playing the card of a purely friendly encounter. I am obviously lying to myself, since I secretly hope to be the person who might change her mind about what she is looking for.

Everything goes well during this first date and, by the second one, she even agrees to let me pick her up at her house. What I interpret as an opening is nothing more than a sign of trust toward a potential friend in the making. Then, during the third date, when I make a move and invite her to go out with me, I have to face the facts: she is not attracted to me and I am now trapped in that famous situation I got myself into—the infamous friend zone.

I am very frustrated by it, but perhaps she just needs a little time to trust me. She keeps coming to talk to me after all... I imagine she must still feel something.

And who would not be tempted to confide in someone offering such an array of comforting gestures and empathy, under the guise of an ear that could not be more attentive, and one that had been warned in full knowledge of the facts?

We talk for nearly two months and, after once again making it clear that nothing would ever happen between us, she tells me that she has just met someone for whom she is already developing feelings. I then transform the savior mask I had been wearing into that of a victim, while delivering a jab worthy of an executioner— the third angle and missing link in this dramatic triangle—before continuing on my way.

Goodbye, Mélodie.

Dear Substackers,

Ah, love. Poetry’s favourite subject.

More often than not, it is celebrated, glorified, and sometimes even idealised. As you may have noticed here, we are quite far from that approach.

Today, I invite you to explore the first half of a poetic diptych dedicated to love. Two poems, two perspectives. And to begin with, the more corrosive of the two.

But why so much bitterness?

Still talking – about silly things.

From the very first lines, the tone is established.

Love is not celebrated; it is mocked. Reduced to background noise, to a repetitive conversation whose meaning seems to have gradually faded away.

The accumulation of verbs such as chattering and clucking is deliberate. It evokes mechanical speech, almost automatic, as though romantic discourse itself had lost its substance.

Another supermarket concept, best value for money

Brutal in its simplicity, this comparison forms one of the poem’s key turning points.

Love is no longer portrayed as an inner experience but as a consumer product. The supermarket becomes the symbol of a relational marketplace where people compare, select, replace, and optimise.

If love becomes a product, then the other person risks becoming an interchangeable item. From this point onward, the poem describes less a breakup than a process.

After the first sparks and what we commonly call the honeymoon phase, everyday reality takes over. Habits emerge. Flaws reveal themselves. Initial promises gradually become burdens.

What interested me here was not so much the failure of a relationship as the feeling of witnessing an almost predictable mechanism.

Disillusion does not appear as an accident but as an expected stage of the script.

The couple as an institution

One of the poem’s most significant passages is undoubtedly this one:

We’ll sign the papers, sell the house.

At this moment, the couple ceases to be an intimate space and becomes a structure.

Administrative and material language gradually invades the territory of feelings. Contracts, property, obligations, and responsibilities begin to occupy a growing place within a story that initially seemed driven by emotion.

The poem therefore raises a broader question: how much of our romantic decision-making still comes from desire, and how much responds to an already established social model?

And when that model fails, another solution often appears immediately: replacement.

A new partner. A new story. Yet sometimes the very same stage.

Love or the idea of love?

This is perhaps where the true core of the poem lies.

For Bitter Love does not merely criticise romantic relationships. It also questions the place we assign to love within our collective imagination.

I have often observed that love is presented as a kind of modern Grail. An experience considered essential to personal fulfilment, almost as though it were a mandatory step in the human journey.

More than that, love itself is frequently confused with the simple fact of being in a relationship.

Having a partner becomes a marker of success or social integration, while the absence of one is sometimes perceived as a deficiency.

The poem therefore asks whether we are truly searching for love or merely pursuing the image we have built around it.

Conclusion

This reflection is carried by a narrator who is intentionally bitter.

His perspective is insightful at times, excessive at others. He expresses weariness, confusion, and even a refusal to participate in this social dance.

Yet his point of view may not be free from contradiction. For does the person who criticises collective illusions not risk falling into another illusion of his own?

Is his bitterness the result of clear-sighted observation, or the consequence of a disappointment from which he has not entirely recovered?

That ambiguity was precisely what interested me.

One thing, however, remains certain:

We wouldn’t do badly to begin by loving ourselves before putting our name on a loan.

Before seeking in others what we feel is missing within ourselves, we may first need to cultivate a healthy relationship with who we are.

And you?

If love is sometimes less a genuine encounter than a script that has already been written, what keeps us accepting the role without ever questioning the play itself?

Peace & Bliss,
Aaron.

Looking back… there is certainly plenty to say.

— What are you complaining about? You’ve always had everything you wanted.

Yeah… That’s my father’s voice echoing in my head, although it is not quite time yet to talk about my parents.

So, where am I right now? Considering the way I started this piece of writing, I think I have a first clue: those famous complicated love stories. They say that every story comes with its share of complications, and mine are no exception. My last serious relationship? I still wonder how, for four years, I stayed with someone who did not suit me at all and whom I disliked a little more as time went by. Opposites attract? Savior complex? Social pressure? Probably a bit of all that. Still, when I go through the different chapters of our adventure, I find the phenomenon curious; having felt feelings for one another before gradually sinking into a form of contempt that grew worse and worse over the years.

But it must be said that the situation is almost laughable: spending four years with someone who is not right for you, wouldn’t that be sabotage?

I think it is time to go back a few years to understand what brought me into this situation.

SEPTEMBER 2016

Once upon a time, there was a young man approaching his thirties who suddenly woke up in a bedroom reeking of stale smoke. The beginnings of a first awakening? Let’s just say that after drifting for several years through a kind of interstellar void, it was time to mop up the life I had led up until then for the first time. Back then, I had a highly questionable lifestyle, with a routine oscillating between joints from morning till night, booze-filled weekends, and culinary nightmares made of sugar and GMOs. It is not hard to understand that this deplorable lifestyle, which I had indulged in for a long time, had placed me on a slippery slope, whose excesses were leading me more and more toward a certain unhappiness, if not an undeniable one. This realization came after asking myself when the last time I had shared an intimate moment with a woman was… maybe six months ago, or a year? And my last serious relationship? Not exactly a fairy tale either, to say the least. Almost ten years already.

In short, so many signs pointing toward a model not to follow, resulting at this stage in a disastrous love life. I must admit, however, that not everything is so negative: I have a relatively active social life with many friends around me, and a steady job in which I do not feel too bad. I was even already doing “a little” sport, a rather meager attempt at salvation to compensate for the different forms of filth I was inflicting upon my body and mind.

One fine day, after years in that thick fog, I wake up and say to myself: damn, I’m twenty-eight years old and I no longer know how many years I’ve wasted doing nothing, except letting my life evaporate like a cloud of smoke while background noises drift by through my long lethargy.

Such a waste of talent, because I am a musician—not the worst one, without wanting to blow my own trumpet—but apart from playing in my bedroom, my sanctuary within the family home, nobody except the walls ever hears me, or very rarely.

Around me, a good number of my friends have houses, children, go on vacations, have projects… It hurts to realize that at twenty-eight years old, in the middle of a bedroom that reeks of joint smoke and regrets. That is when a rather sudden switch occurs: I have to take my life back into my own hands by putting things in place.

The first step of the plan? From one day to the next, I decide to cut out all the crap I keep sending into my stomach: no more fat, sugar, or soda. Once again, since it is not the first time I have followed a drastic diet, I start paying attention to what I eat, the first step toward a very specific idea: feeling good in my own body.

But in all honesty, I am beginning to suffer from the effects of isolation, the lack of love and attention. I want to feel desirable and to desire in return, to share my secret garden, to have plans, and above all, I want to escape the confinement to which I have condemned myself. So, in an instant, I begin by exercising more alongside this new eating plan. I start losing weight and soon after add a drastic reduction in my consumption of tobacco, alcohol, and above all, cannabis.

Indeed, I realize that a large part of my unhappiness goes hand in hand with this bad habit, and above all, the hazy state I am living in is becoming unbearable. My mind is never clear, and I cannot count how many appointments I have forgotten, not to mention deadlines, details, and objects. One day, while I was stoned, I even left a bag containing brand-new clothes I had just bought on a bus. My tolerance for conflict is almost nonexistent and, sometimes, after smoking a dozen joints, I collapse into bed before it is even 8 p.m. This has to stop.

A few weeks after this realization, around the end of September, I travel to Italy with my mother and sister. During this week-long trip, I do not smoke and do not even feel the urge to. When I return, I get rid of whatever I have left to smoke and minimize all temptations which, I must admit, are quite strong at the beginning of withdrawal. My bedroom, my room, my refuge, and all my familiar landmarks call out to me, but I will hold firm!

Dear Substackers,

As you discovered last Friday, Maisonnette portrays a very particular universe. Behind its lights, sounds, and apparent promise of fortune, the poem explores the world of gambling through an establishment better known by its Italian name, which I imagine most of you quickly recognized.

More than the place itself, it is the mechanism behind it that fascinates me. A space where expectation sometimes overtakes hope, where an elegant setting becomes the stage for an illusion whose rules appear simple on the surface, yet whose probabilities often remain misunderstood. A world in which emotions can sometimes play a far greater role than reason

When euphoria takes hold, it bewitches us.

The choice of words is not accidental. Euphoria does not merely accompany the experience; it “bewitches.” From the very first verses, I wanted this sensation to become the poem’s true protagonist. More than the players, more than the casino itself, it is this feeling that drives behaviour.

The terminology used throughout the poem also contributes to this idea. The phrase “racetrack, by time long deserted” functions both as a metaphor and as a subtle reference to the racetrack found around certain roulette tables. The image evokes a space where familiar landmarks disappear. Time itself seems suspended, and all that matters is the possibility of the next spin.

This departure from reality is not unique to casinos. It can be found in many environments designed to capture our attention and prolong our engagement. In gambling establishments, the absence of clocks is perhaps one of the most well-known examples.

The poem also places considerable emphasis on sensory stimuli. Chips gradually cease to be mere objects; they become attractive, almost playful. This shift is essential because it accompanies another transformation: our relationship with money itself.

Numbers that no longer exist within the mind

This line is rooted in a very real phenomenon. Once money is converted into chips, it loses part of its tangible nature. Amounts become abstract, losses feel less immediate, and risk-taking becomes more natural. This “transmutation” is, in my view, one of the most fascinating mechanisms at work in the gambling world.

As the poem progresses, it moves beyond simple description and begins to explore what lies beneath the surface.

All against a common enemy with too often the upper hand

The notion of perfectly fair chance is then placed into perspective. This also gives me an opportunity to share a more personal reflection.

Having worked as a croupier, I quickly became familiar with the many legends that circulate within this world. Some people believe that dealers possess hidden ways of influencing outcomes, or that casinos systematically cheat in order to make players lose.

The reality is both simpler and more unsettling.

The house advantage generally relies on no secret manipulation whatsoever. It is already embedded within the probabilities themselves. The casino does not need to cheat; it merely needs to allow mathematics to do its work over time.

Towards the end of the poem, it is the player who ultimately becomes the central character.

The investor who does all the work

At this point, the perspective shifts completely. The player is no longer portrayed as a potential winner, but rather as the true resource that sustains the system. This reversal gives the poem a broader significance and allows it to extend beyond the casino itself.

The final revelation sheds light on what lies beneath the establishment’s dimly lit atmosphere. The contrast between its seductive appearance and its underlying reality encapsulates the poem as a whole.

The casino thus becomes a symbol of a much larger mechanism: one shared by all structures that thrive on a curious blend of fascination, hope, superstition, probability, and sometimes even a certain lack of self-awareness.

Beyond gambling itself, Maisonnette ultimately questions our relationship with illusion.

Are we truly drawn to what we seek, or merely to what is presented to us as desirable?

And you?

At what point do you think a form of entertainment ceases to be simple leisure and becomes a mechanism capable of influencing our behaviour and perception of reality?

Peace & Bliss,

Aaron.

“And what if, before being, I had never truly been?”

Everyone here is confronted with the mirror of becoming, with its questions, its doubts, its decisions. I was living the life of a man in his early thirties who swore by stability and moved through the illusion of a life model that was never truly his.

After a shocking encounter, I began to take stock of what had brought me to where I was — a first step before leaping into the decision to change my entire way of living.

Existing? is the account of this transitional period, a moment when everything seemed to be slipping away, and when I experienced one of the most meaningful encounters of my life, but also one of the most painful.

Those who have been following me know me mostly through a more poetic lens, and my poems — along with their reflections — will continue to exist alongside this work.

This special series of thirty chapters, which I will publish at a rhythm of one per week, can be seen as a window into a different form of intimacy — one that has shaped a part of the writer I have become today.

CHAPTER I — THE BEGINNING OF THE END

January 8, 2022

“Will you come and see me when I start my studies in Malta next year?” Miss K asks me.

“Who knows what can happen in a year…” I say in a stern tone.

The silence that follows immediately weighs down the atmosphere. I keep my jaw clenched, and despite everything, there is only one thing I want: to get on a plane and join her in Andalusia, where she is currently staying.

“Why so late?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. One word from you and I’ll take the next flight.”

“(Silence...)”

“That’s what I thought.”

“You know my situation. I’ve already told you: for now, it’s not possible.”

“Obviously…”

“I know it’s difficult for you, and I’m sorry. I know all the harm I’ve caused. Believe it or not, it’s even harder for me to realize that I’m the one responsible for this mess. I’ve already told you: I need to sort things out before making the right decisions. I need to find myself again, even if it means going far away. But I haven’t forgotten my promise.”

A sigh escapes my mouth. I am lost in this situation and am beginning not to know which way to turn.

An unpleasant feeling rises within me as I think back on the episodes we have gone through since we met. Since that famous month of June in Calabria, the summer had been like a dream, culminating in that last week of August when she tearfully confessed that she had feelings for me. But all of that was nothing compared to when reality caught up with us at the end of September. Since then, I have felt trapped in a long and painful descent. Once again, I replay that famous scene from two months earlier, tearing my reservation for Barcelona into a thousand pieces when she told me she needed distance after the heated argument we had had.

I try to form a sentence, but only stammering sounds come out of my mouth. Faced with the anger and sadness that have been mixing together since this emotional upheaval, which exhausts me a little more each day, I feel myself spiraling out of control.

“You have no idea what I’m going through. This is one of the worst situations I’ve ever had to face. Since the beginning of your trip with that ‘so-called best friend,’ I’ve felt betrayed, used. I have nightmares about it. I feel like a wanderer in the desert marveling at the sight of a mirage oasis. For months now, I’ve been nothing more than a sad ghost, sucked into a black hole that is pulling me away from the cheerful, funny, and optimistic man I used to be. I cry for no reason, yet I have to stand tall and respond calmly whenever you deign to give me a sign of life, when in reality I’m just acting as your therapist, having to listen to your adventures and your arguments with that other asshole before you go back to him.”

I should have seen the famous “it’s complicated” coming from the moment she told me about Diego—who had unwillingly become my rival—and who now seems as much a victim as I am in this circus she has dragged us into. This time, enough is enough.

“Do you understand how much I can’t take this anymore?”

After a brief silence, she replies cautiously:

“You have to do what’s best for you.”

What’s best for me… what a joke.

“Now I’m the one who has to go far away from you.”

“I never hid the fact that I wasn’t emotionally ready. I’m even less ready today. But I’ve always been sincere with you. If you think I’ve been playing with your feelings, I’ll say it again: I’m sorry.”

Without a second thought, I delete the conversation and the photos. I gather all the things of hers that I had accumulated like little relics since I met her before throwing everything into the trash.

Only one step remains: pressing the “Block Contact” button, written in red, as if to seal the irreversibility of the gesture.

What if she was truly sincere? What if I was the one being too impatient? And yet, everything tells me that this is nothing more than another act in this sordid masquerade. It is now time to put an end to all of this.

CHAPTER II — BEFORE LOOKING BACK

FEBRUARY 22, 2022

It was in this way, after these various turbulent episodes, that words began to flow from my fingertips on February 22, 2022, at 9:49 p.m., to be precise. I wonder, moreover, whether this palindromic date had—or will have—any particular significance, other than this epiphany that came from playing the writer and putting singular moments of my life down on paper in the paragraphs that follow.

I was there, in the middle of this dull room filled with moving boxes, staring at a point in space without actually looking at it. The deafening noise made by the old stove acted like a hypnotic signal, blending into the limbo-like atmosphere in which my contemplative mind had become lost.

A notification on my computer made a sound that pulled me out of this dreamlike state. A blank page with a blinking cursor was still open. As bedtime began to creep closer, my night-owl tendencies started to itch, awakening my creative side. Timidly, I began tapping on my keyboard:

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well…”

If being the second speaker in a dialogue with myself seemed like an interesting idea, this first question was far too broad. Since I had always loved the dialectics of Socrates, I decided to answer that question with another:

“What brought you to where you are today?”

If I take into account the most significant recent events, a year had now passed since my separation from Miss C. The house we had lived in had now been sold, and the final page of the book of our “romance” had indeed been turned. It must be said that you didn’t need to be a prediction expert to bet that our relationship was going to fail, no matter what happened.

Why did I buy a house with her when I knew the dice had already been loaded from the start? I admit, it’s a fair question. I think I like putting myself in complicated situations. Isn’t this latest episode with Miss K another telling example?

“And now, what comes next?”

Where am I going? Perhaps that was the heart of the existential questioning that had been accompanying me for several months now, if not several years. I lean back from the keyboard for a moment, and a whole flood of information, flashes, and memories overwhelms me. I realize that it has been a long time since I started asking myself many questions about the way I live and constantly wondering whether my life truly suits me.

I realize that lately, a permanent feeling of unease has been gripping me and turning me gray, like an itch that keeps scratching at my mind. This kind of feeling gave me the impression of being a prisoner of my own life. What a paradox when one has nothing to complain about, isn’t it? Being aware of my own good fortune, yet feeling permanently incomplete.

All around me, I see inspiring personalities and I envy them—I would even say I am jealous of them, perhaps unfairly. Who knows? Everything is a matter of standards or convictions. But after all, who has never been impressed by the shadow of those models of success surrounding us, reflecting back at us our own mediocrity? That contradictory dissatisfaction of wanting what we do not yet have, or almost...

Then I ask myself a very simple question:

“What will my life story look like when I look back on it?”

“Oh, you know, I did the same job my whole life. I saw the same people, the same friends over and over again, the same ones I love talking shit about behind their backs. I’ve always lived in the same region, in the same country. And as for love, well, I’m paying off the mortgage on the house because I just got separated again. That idiot woman is even asking me for child support on top of that, for an ungrateful child who never does what he’s told.”

The thought terrifies me because I could go on in this tone for a very long time, so familiar does everything I am describing feel...

I remain motionless, staring open-mouthed at the screen. What if everything that had happened to me until now had been nothing but a series of bad choices, while I believed I was fulfilling the illusory prophecy that would give meaning to my existence?

I then think back to the year that had just passed, during which I felt as though I were coming back to life, stepping into a new era whose every aspect I did not yet fully understand. One thing was certain: it seemed to give meaning to my life by going against the current of everything I had experienced until then. Not to mention that famous encounter that changed my life forever and which I had had to bring to an end for my own salvation.

And what if, before being, I had never truly been?

And what does this beginning leave echoing within you? I’d be delighted to hear about your feedback.

Peace & Bliss,

Aaron.

Dear Substackers,

Today’s analysis focuses on a revisited poem: The Devil’s Sonata. This piece unfolds as a poetic ode, rooted in an exploration that is at once dreamlike, symbolic, and tinged with the supernatural — echoing a well-known legend: that of an encounter with the devil.

As a brief anecdote, the poem directly references the story behind the creation of Tartini’s Devil’s Trill Sonata, composed by the Italian Baroque violinist. Legend has it that one of his most famous works came to him in a dream, during which he made a pact with the devil.

The latter, now at his service, is said to have played a melody of absolute singularity and perfection. Upon waking, Tartini attempted to transcribe what he had heard, yet never managed to match it. Thus, the Devil’s Trill Sonata was born.

For me, this piece is a way of revisiting that legend from a different perspective, placing it within a broader tradition in which such pacts transcend time and artistic forms — from the crossroads myth in the history of blues, to The Picture of Dorian Gray in literature.

From the very beginning, the poem establishes a state of creative blockage:

“Absence of inspiration, a silence deeply marked”

This silence is not insignificant — it precedes a shift, as if the lack itself were preparing the emergence of something else. The entrance into the “strange dwelling” then becomes a symbolic passage from the ordinary world into the realm of dreams.

The arrival in this place is marked by solemnity and refinement. “Instruments of noble craft,” “harmony,” and “cadence” suggest a universe that is controlled, almost perfect in its construction. The violin becomes the instrument of a force that transcends the musician, as though the music exists independently from the one who plays it.

The central moment of the poem arises in the confrontation with virtuosity:

“But suddenly, as if struck by a lightning brilliance,
Sublimed by the notes he distilled,”

This moment of stillness reflects a sense of overwhelm: the art becomes too vast to be fully grasped. It is no longer a matter of listening, but of total sensory immersion.

The figure of the musician then takes on an ambiguous dimension. Both master and guide, he recognizes within the narrator a deep desire: to become “the scribe of such beauty.”

Yet the experience does not end with artistic revelation. It leads to a more ambivalent inner transformation. The return to reality comes with a loss:

“My desire now resembles a flame already consumed,”

The gift received becomes a form of condemnation. Exposure to such extreme beauty irreversibly alters one’s relationship with the everyday, as if the intensity experienced renders everything else insufficient. Creation, far from being pure liberation, becomes a constant tension — almost a longing for the absolute.

The poem concludes with a fundamental uncertainty:

“If it were the devil, I would scarcely have believed it”

This final line leaves a crucial ambiguity. The “devil” is not presented here as a moral figure, but as a possible embodiment of artistic fascination itself — something that elevates as much as it strips away, that reveals as much as it consumes.

To conclude, if the figure of the devil can take on many forms and meanings, perhaps it ultimately represents this absolute pursuit of perfection — along with all the abstraction that comes with it.

And what if, in his search for a form of illumination, Tartini had in fact missed the very essence of creation? The kind that resides in imperfection, in the gesture itself, in that raw impulse not yet constrained by the demand for perfection. Perhaps the act of creating, in all its fragility, already holds a form of authentic purity. After all, as the saying goes, the devil is in the details.

And you?
How far can the pursuit of beauty or perfection transform our relationship with reality, to the point where the everyday itself begins to feel unfamiliar?

Dear Substackers,

Following Looking Back, which ended on a note of emancipation, today’s analysis turns to a more grounded piece. As its title suggests, Failure explores the relationship between ambition, work, and the feeling of falling short. It naturally extends the previous poem, highlighting how choosing a less conventional path often comes with a mental burden — a price that is not always anticipated.

Here, the reflection moves away from the symbolic and the metaphysical, and instead takes on a more direct, almost tangible form from the very first lines:

“I wanted to live the life of a self-employed man”

The poem immediately establishes tension, offering a glimpse into the daily reality of self-employment, along with the doubts that come with it. The pursuit of autonomy — perhaps even an idealized version of it — quickly collides with the rigidity of reality:

“the lane backs down in the face of a lack of hands”

This almost awkward, paradoxical image effectively captures the gap between imagined flexibility and the concrete constraints of independent work.

The poem then shifts toward another idealized figure: the successful artist:

“my name at the top of the bill”
“a book in the best-seller aisle”

These projections, rooted in an almost utopian vision of artistic success, are quickly undercut by their ironic context — deserted airports, a form of recognition that already feels empty. Ambition here meets disillusionment, tinged with a slightly dystopian undertone.

Gradually, the poem turns inward, becoming more introspective and bitter. The central question becomes one of legitimacy:

“Am I just good at pretending”

This marks a crucial shift. Doubt no longer concerns career choices alone, but the very value of what one creates. The contrast between “functionality” and “creativity” highlights a familiar yet persistent tension: security versus self-expression.

The emotional weight intensifies with the introduction of a well-known social injunction:

“hold on, work harder”

This line functions almost like a collective refrain — an internalized voice that clashes with lived experience, and here, rings hollow. It feels as though the initial drive has already faded, giving way to a more sobering confrontation with reality. The poem doesn’t question effort itself, but rather the compatibility between two worlds: structured employment and uncertain entrepreneurship, dreamed freedom and fragmented reality.

The conclusion settles into a nearly cold observation, bordering on pessimism. It reflects the inner conflict of someone caught between multiple possible paths, uncertain of which one truly fits — and increasingly aware of the difficulty of fully inhabiting the life they have chosen.

Peace & Bliss,
Aaron.

Dear Substackers,

For this poem, Looking Back fits within a reflection on the passage of time, the gradual loss of innocence, and the confrontation with adulthood.

“Do you remember those days? Those carefree displays?”

From the very opening, through this direct question, the line acts as a gateway to the past. It immediately introduces a recurring theme in my writing: nostalgia — although the poem ultimately extends far beyond a simple retrospective glance.

Different stages of life are then sketched out, beginning with childhood, portrayed as a suspended space where time and responsibilities carried no weight. The visual dimension of this writing is particularly striking: “With three little figures, inventing film-worthy scenes” and “When time held no weight, as we ran through the fields in a daze” both convey that sense of freedom tied to childhood innocence, but also a form of creativity — a way of imitating the adult world in an idealized version, or perhaps simply one without consequences.

Gradually, the poem shifts toward a more abrupt awareness:

“At the age of breaking free — where we think we know fast”

This line highlights adolescence and early adulthood as a blurred transitional phase, marked by an illusion of control. The individual begins to see themselves as an active agent in shaping their own condition, often accompanied by a certain arrogance, particularly toward authority figures. The adolescent seeks to break free from the influence of those who came before, in a movement that is both necessary and conflictual.

The poem then emphasizes the disillusionment of life paths. Childhood dreams collide with the compromises of reality, social expectations, and another theme that resonates deeply with me: the idealization of the so-called “perfect life.” The world gradually narrows, shifting from an open and imaginative space toward a more mechanical normalization of existence. The bar, intoxication, and “escapes that were hollow at heart” reflect an attempt to flee — one that remains circular, trapped within its own limits.

However, the poem does not settle for a purely disenchanted critique. A turning point emerges with the introduction of writing itself. The narrator states:

“I stopped reading lines others whispered to me — chose to write”

This moment marks a crucial shift: passivity gives way to the reclaiming of one’s own narrative. It is no longer about following a predefined path, but about reshaping it. Ink becomes a metaphor for emancipation — imperfect, yet authentic — “full of crossings-out, sketches drawn in the side.” Writing is no longer just a tool, but a form of resistance against the standardization of existence.

Finally, the conclusion opens onto a form of assumed existential solitude. The perspective becomes more critical, almost out of sync with collective expectations:

“It’s strange how they call you insane when you choose”

This final rupture highlights the tension between social conformity and the pursuit of authenticity. The poem offers no resolution, but rather a stance: that of an individual who observes, questions, and ultimately chooses to follow their own path, at the heart of the creative process.

N.B.
To conclude, although the structure of this poem may seem unusual, it holds meaning for me on several levels.

The first, childhood, evokes a form of comfortable passivity, where the individual acts as a reflection of what has been instilled in them. Adolescence extends this pattern, while introducing a desire for emancipation tied to growing awareness.

Finally, adulthood presents a more fundamental choice: to remain within this inherited framework — whether passive or superficially rebellious — or to truly break away from it. It is at this point that genuine emancipation can emerge, where the individual stops replaying a model and begins to fully exercise their free will.

Peace & Bliss,
Aaron.

Dear Substackers,

The poem titled “Distorting Mirrors” moves away from a linear narrative to enter a more metaphysical reflection. Here, it is no longer simply about living or remembering, but about questioning the very nature of reality and the fragmentation of existence.

“What if the sky were, in reality, the cartography of all our different existences?”

From the very beginning, the sky ceases to be a simple natural element and becomes a mental structure, an inner projection. The idea of “cartography” suggests that the visible universe may only be an organized representation of our internal states, as if reality itself were a coded language of consciousness.

This impression continues with the image of “cracks in a casing of glass” The world then appears fragile, almost artificial, marked by fractures that evoke both beauty and rupture. The terms “crystalline” and “unique as a snowflake” introduce an interesting ambiguity: each crack is both singular and part of a larger whole, as if individuality itself were merely a variation of the same pattern.

The text then shifts toward an external voice, acting almost like a philosophical trigger:

“All those people you cross paths with,
all those souls…
What if all those variations
were, in reality,
the distortion of a single entity?”

This intervention introduces a deeply non-dual idea: otherness may be nothing more than an illusion of perception, a diffraction of one single principle. The other is no longer entirely external, but becomes an extension—a modulation of the same.

The final question pushes this logic to its extreme:

“What if all these beings
were, in reality,
just another part of me?”

The poem then moves toward a form of dissolution of the boundaries between the self and the world. Individual identity fragments—or rather, recomposes itself within a larger whole, where the “self” is no longer a fixed unit but a shifting constellation. Reality then acts like distorting mirrors. Deceptive? Perhaps. But above all revealing—the reflection of a consciousness in search of meaning, seeking itself through everything it observes.

In conclusion, although the word reality is repeated, across the different stanzas it gradually detaches itself from its original meaning and reinvents itself through this questioning.”

And you?
At what point do we stop seeing others as separate from ourselves and begin to recognize them as fragments of the same whole?

Peace & Bliss,
Aaron.

Dear,

After frolicking through the caress of early spring days—between wonder, intimacy, and nostalgia—with the three most recent poems, this last poem closes April with a more contrasted touch.

Indeed, Delirium, through its opening lines— “Trapped between two sheets, a burning cold coursing through my body / A cold that nothing can warm, not even by plunging into a bath of magma”— immerses us in the heart of a raging fever that transfigures reality, in a form of inner wandering through a space where body and mind merge. The atmosphere is immediately established, and the fever becomes a maelstrom, where every gesture, every breath, seems swept away by an uncontrollable force.

The poem plays with the boundary between dream and reality. Images overlap and blur: “Flashing lights, fragments of waking dreams” evoke a shifting, unstable universe, where time and space deform. The figure reaching out, fading into the fog, becomes a symbol of an elusive quest—a desire, a memory, or an escape toward an almost unattainable serenity.

The text also conveys the weight of body and consciousness: beads of sweat, beds saturated with toxins, the crushing floor—all testify to a physical and mental struggle. The experience is not merely hallucinatory: it is visceral.
“The room seems to be closing in, as if / A parallel dimension were pulling me into its grasp”
expresses this sense of entrapment, where every breath and heartbeat seems amplified within a parallel universe.

Thus, while Delirium questions our relationship with fear, uncertainty, and loss of control, it also challenges our own conception of reality through different sensory phases, where illusion sometimes feels truer than reality.

And you?

Have you ever felt your own world wobble, when body and mind seem to escape simultaneously, and the boundary between dream and reality becomes imperceptible? And then, as we say where I come from, “In April, don’t shed a thread yet!”

Dear Substackers,

After analyzing a more exotic, even sensual poem with Curves, last Friday’s poem takes on a more introspective tone, where self-liberation is intertwined with a sense of nostalgia.

From the very first lines— “It’s because I had enough of you that I had to flee / Blaming you for the dullness living inside of me”— the poem establishes a silent dialogue between departure and responsibility: the narrator flees, but this flight is also a confrontation with their own inertia, their own burden.

The use of imagery such as—“Like a stone in the eye, a splinter in the sight, / An ink stain on my page”—reinforces the feeling of a connection that hinders and weighs heavily. Each metaphor amplifies the sense of discomfort, but also the necessity to break free from what restrains the inner life. The escape is not merely physical: it is mental, emotional, and necessary to reach what aims to be a renewed perspective on the world.

Landscapes thus act as revealing elements: “These new landscapes have cut through my languor, / Echoing the soft call my heart would answer.”
Nature becomes a catalyst for rebirth and awakening, a way to regain energy and curiosity, while still being marked by the past that seems to inhabit our “foundations.” The poem explores the tension between being and having been.

Finally, The Scent of Rain—evoking the rain that lulls the narrator’s homeland—ends on a note of emotional ambiguity:
“I tell myself… deep down, you never forget me.”
Here, the narrator, though not yet fully accepting, recognizes their nostalgia, indirectly associating it with a sense of personal failure in the making, and acknowledges it through an indirect process—implied by the accusative phrasing of the line.

And you?
What do you think of the process of fleeing as a means of rebuilding?

Peace & Bliss,
Aaron.