The sun warms my back. My eyes melt into a sea of blue and white marshmallows. No, I’m not high. I’m just touching life with its bare hands. square-shaped trees surround me and grass tickles my legs. I’m in park in the south of Paris. Jason and I had just picked up a lunch from the nearby market. And now our stomachs are full and we are laying in the sun with the rest of the Parisiennes. It’s magical. I’m trying to remember what my life was like before these moments. Before this one. I close my eyes and I’m stricken with forgetfulness. And I’m OK with it. Truly.
So far, I’ve only had few people that have touched my life. That have truly discovered me and scratched my inner self. They have made me vulnerable, yet strong. One of those people was one who I laid with in the grass that day.
This feeling, from Paris. It’s indescribable. It shaped me. Evolved me. And all I can do for it right now, considering my life circumstances, is to give life in words to the moments I cherished the most. I feel indebted to Paris forever. It’s a home I can always turn to — when things aren’t easy here. And when times are hard — and the Paris feeling leaves me for a day —I crave it and try desperately to retrieve it. The calm heart, the calm mind. The sense of peace in everything. I don’t want to go back to me before Paris. It’s terrifying me. It’s the battlefield-of-the-mind-me. It’s treacherous territory.
And as my memories become a distinct reality, so natural and real that I can remember the way everything felt. Everything. was. wonderful. and. so. authentic. If I had a sixth sense, this might be it. Now, I’m strolling down the streets near Saint Germain. Headphones are in my ears and I’m watching, observing the people and wishing this was my life. I thought, I belong here. Even though I’m not from here. I find the coffee shop I have been looking for. The one I have read in books and reviews. Ernest Hemingway’s most-beloved coffee shop. Ah, the ghost of him around me is suffocating, but in a wonderful way. I sit down alone and order a espresso. And I write that I’m here. And that this moment will never leave me. I’m here. I’m here. It’s so magical here.
Fleeting moments of clarity 