Paris has always brought me comfort. For some reason I always felt more like myself over there.
It never hurt me either, it has always been kind to me. Paris never brought heartache, disappointment or the feeling of failure. I have never over welcomed my stay and Paris never sent me home with a broken heart. Instead, we appreciate our time together. And I like to keep our romance like this. Sweet brief encounters in the summer breeze of august and cold short strolls right before christmas. I always leave Paris feeling restored, like my hopes and dreams have a place and I can bring myself to fulfill them.
I always feel more like myself when I leave as well. Paris allows me to be, unapologetically. I can write without a purpose, sit at a cafe for hours and write my life away without having to call it work for foreign eyes; read my books for hours at the park or by the Seine. Not bother too much about what I wear, just dress as I’m pleased and not mind about judging stares. People allow themselves to simply exist there. At home, everyone walks like their going somewhere, not many allow themselves to sit on benches and read throughout an entire afternoon. But Paris is a city for lovers, lovers of the art. So people stop and create, wherever, whenever.
And I don’t intend to say I can’t do those things at home. It is unfair to say such a thing. The truth though is that I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m more self aware here. I overthink and become too aware of my surroundings. I’ll spot a interested gaze and reflect my own judgement on it instead of overlooking it.
I don’t wanna ruin my romance with Paris. I don’t wanna turn Paris into home and start caring about what people might think about what I do and wear. I don’t wanna move, that’s not what this is about. I’d like to keep dreaming about it, I’d like to escape there and come back home with that refreshed glow from someone who didn’t have to care for a single minute.
The harsh truth is that Paris is really not that different from home. I am the one changing along with the time zones. I’m the one who overthinks existing. I don’t allow myself to live an unapologetic life. So how can I ever be content? That’ll be the greatest achievement: to be as carefree as I can possibly bring myself to (that’s a redundancy, isn’t it?)
Maybe – just maybe – Paris was never a city, it as always been a feeling. And I have to take with me wherever I go, but most importantly, I have to accommodate it here, at home.
This didn’t made much sense, but I never do. It’s time to own up to it.