Tuesday, May 22, 2012

The bad thing about going to Paris is that unless you are well off, or well connected enough to actually move there, eventually you have to come back home. When I board the return bound jet, I die a slow, agonizing 9 hour emotional death. I never feel more like my true self than when I am in Paris, but when that plane begins to descend, I feel myself drain rapidly away, like sand sifting through my fingers. Within a couple of days, nothing is left of that woman or the spirit that rang so true within me. And I struggle to believe my memories were even true. Did it really happen? Was it really that beautiful?

When I return, the sunlight I so joyfully celebrated takes on a cruel intensity. It highlights everything, the poverty, the dirt, and the utter not - ness of how this place is so unlike Paris. It makes me want to shrink away, pull the blinds, pull the blanket over my head and ultimately my mind. I hate it here, because it is not there.
I try, and barely contain my resentment of everyone around me. The only reason I am here speaking to you is because I am not there. And you are not my friends from Paris. You are not the ones I miss. You are not the ones I connect with on a level I never before felt possible.

I chide myself. I tell myself I an suffering from nothing that a big dose of maturity and adulthood would not cure. It does not work. I rack my brain trying to think of ways to make my dream a reality. I scour the web and read over and over how nearly impossible it is for an American to find work in Paris. But I don't need a lot of jobs, just the one.

Friday, May 11, 2012

Hi Blogspot. I think I miss you. I think we need to spend more time together. Wait here, I will be back soon.