Avenues

I used to think my journey looked like this: an orange cat, sleeping in the sun. Me, wasting my life away.

A daily grind swallowed by noise, routine, and the quiet belief that nothing would ever change.

But somewhere between the exhaustion and the numbness, I took a chance.

I put my knowledge from pen to paper. Keyboard to word. Word to publishing.

It didn’t feel heroic. It felt like a checklist — a strange ritual after pain, where I kept asking myself why I was typing when I wasn’t sure I had anything left to feel.

Yet Une ruelle avec une fin emerged anyway.

It wasn’t the book I expected to write. It wasn’t even a book I thought I was allowed to write.

Those lines came from a place deeper than memory.

They came from the cycle — the one that traps so many of us in violence, shame, and invisibility. The cycle that teaches us to survive before we ever learn to speak.

Where violence does not have to be named.

The bankruptcy, the divorce, the emotional token of losing a child, the institutional violence, the social violence, the religion, the family that ignores you and the 3 cancers. 

It was a horrendous journey that found its own voice — a voice carved from silence, from objects that remember, from places that witnessed what people refused to see.

“La porte sait combien de fois elle a tremblé.” “Le sous-sol sait ce que la nuit avale.”

This book is not a monument to suffering. It’s a record of resistance.

It’s a record of resistance. A reminder that even when institutions fail, when families look away, when the world prefers a clean narrative over a real one, the body remembers. The matter remembers.

And sometimes, writing is the only way to make sure the world does too.

Where the alley — the one with an end — finally opened into something else.