Dear Père, El Padre, Отец, or in whatever language that wraps the soul in the word ‘father.’

I apologize, for the tides of life have swept me far from your shores. I have been adrift, unable to visit Père in your home in Marseille. Only now do I take up my worn parchment and pen, hoping the long silence hasn’t troubled you too deeply. Forgive the delay, it feels like time itself drags my hand as I write.

No, I am not what you say I am. Do not call me the fierce warrior, when in truth, I am nothing more than your clumsy daughter, stumbling through life’s corridors. And yet, there you stand, Père, my knight, my steadfast knight, the one who has always seen through the masks I wear.

And yes, Père, I do love you. Perhaps it is too late to speak those words, but they have long lingered on my tongue. I am grateful that you have found what the French call Le Coup De Foudre that strike of love, sudden and consuming. As for me, I cannot return home just yet. Imagine me as albatross, searching for solace in the winds and waves, lost but not forever. And believe me, one day I shall return to you, for you were right all along. Your heart, Père, is a vast and boundless place, enough to celebrate the homecoming I long for.

I have read Plato to understand Aristotle, Aristotle to reach Kant, Kant to unlock Hegel, Hegel to grasp Marx. But no philosophy, no towering thought can restore me to the purity of Joan of Arc’s vision, that blazing certainty she held within her soul.

May you cherish what you believe in, and if in this life you cannot hold it close, then may you find it in the next.

— Written 35 miles from Buitenzorg,
For someone to whom I shall bring the gift of a crate of clove cigarettes.

et à Moya Sophia; Happy boyfriend's day to you too as well, my little Joan D'arc.

You are père's most fierce warrior, your heart carry a burden that everybody couldn't ever imagine. Whether in love or life, père understood that you are still fighting ever so harshly for it.

I love you dear son, daughter, no matter what it is. Père's heart are big enough for a place to celebrate, a place where you'd share your joy or put aside your burden then cried.

And perhaps you already know how Joan of Arc felt.

Don't be god's strongest soldier. We're human, we created to have an emotion and letting it out not holding it back.

J'ai les yeux rivés sur toi,
My sweetest child.