Paris

  Paris was where I tasted newness again.

     When I first arrived, it was crowded, full of life and color and familiarity.  But it wasn't new, like I thought it would be.  It rained sometimes, and washed up mistakes would overflow out of the gutters.  The same nightmares, the same lifelessness, the same resistance had followed me.  My resistance, overused memories and monochromatic emotions, still lurked behind the colorful signs and the tourist destination spots. 

   So I decided to step off the beaten path.

   I wandered, turning right sometimes, turning left others, until I reached the end.

   I wouldn't know what else to call it, this place on the outskirts where Paris still somewhat existed.  But it was empty, quiet, blank. 

   I breathed out those old memories.  And began to write.

    It was refreshing.  It was awakening.  There was still resistance, don't misunderstand me, but I could combat it with an energy I didn't know I possessed.  I had access to those old memories that had sucked me in and confined me to the same emotions previously.  But now they were new tools, only used for writing if I felt like it.  And even though it rained every day, it was almost cleansing, washing away the mistakes.

    The place soon developed its own color, its own life, crowded with ideas and inspiration and untouched by tourists who take more than pictures and graffiti their opinions onto the walls.

   Then one day I found the plane ticket I had left in my sweater pockets, along with the crumpled peanut packages and loose change. The date: 1/13/2012.

    I packed my things, locked the door, and found my way back to the airport.  But the key still hangs around my neck. Paris hasn't left me just yet.

   That place--where it is left unwritten and open, waiting for you, where Paris really is--taught me to be original again, to push my mind's boundaries, to write myself where I've never been before.  And I hope that all those who travel there throw away the brochures and walk past the gift shops and find their own Paris.

~effervescent laughter

Me. Myself, and I

     I used to love questionaires as a kid.

     Favorite color. Height. Birthday.

     Is my favorite food me?

     I don't know.  I never really thought so.  Maybe I just didn't know myself.  Maybe I just don't know myself. 

     If you really knew me, would you think I was Indian food? Or the color blue? Or white water rafting?

     If you really knew me, you wouldn't have to answer.

     If you really knew me, you'd know that I don't wear matching socks. And that I can't eat just one pistachio. And that hearing my own voice makes me self conscious.  If you really knew me, you'd know that I like feeding ducks and flying kites and I think for things so cliche we don't do them enough.

     If you really knew me, you'd know that I don't like awkward howdoyoudos and I fail at small talk, usually avoiding it altogether.  You'd know that I'm really not that shy, just unsure what I could say that will make people listen.

     If you really knew me, you'd know I love to laugh.

     If you really knew me, you'd know I have more regrets than I can count. You'd know that I hate violence.  You'd know I don't believe in astrology, but I'm such a Libra.

     If you really knew me, you'd know that I found out I had synesthesia last year and it turned my world upside down.

     If you really knew me, you'd know that I stayed up all night last week to see a meteor shower.  You'd know that I love summer storms and seeing people's opinions.

     If you really knew me, you'd know that I love my memories, even the bad ones, and I'm afraid of forgetting when I'm old with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, that somehow I'll lose them before I make it to wherever we end up after we die, that somehow I'll forget who I really am.

     If you really knew me, you'd know that I'm still discovering myself.