Paris, November

Journal entry from November 30th, 2014:

 "I'm in Paris. It's a Sunday morning, almost noon. I'm waking after my first full night of rest - a result of the absurd amount of work, wine, and freezing scooter rides. 

I like Paris. It's playful, sad, childlike, and small. Everything is small. A smallness that yearns to hold you tight. Walls close in on you, as if to warmly embrace your presence. Human need for closeness is an undeniable truth in this city. Yet, people are cold to one another - maybe because their interaction is satisfied by living spaces stacked on top of one another. 

The city speaks to you with every step you take.  Animated, alive, pulling you closer to notice its beautiful intricacies. The city bleeds, has scars of its past. You breathe memories. You taste sadness, love, death. The gloom makes color more whimsical, gold shines brighter.  You understand why dreamers plant their roots here.

Time spent building these walls gave them life, as maybe you'd imagine some higher power did for our kind.  A vibrant, unashamed, vulnerable, and sensitive life."