In some way or another, I always find myself back in Paris. All sunsets belong to her. All heat. All rain. All shadow. And memories too. My memories belong to Paris. She was unpredictable at best. Romantic, ethereal, but, nonetheless, unpredictable. Paris was sweltering heat and sporadic rain. Daylight that continued into midnight. Midnight that never lasted as long as the day. And once it was dark, it was dark. Much like this desire. The city at night, a maze of shadow, guided by the sole illumination of strewn light, winding tunnels or vagrant passages.
The last time I was in Austria, I was barely old enough to remember. There’s something incredibly arresting about coming home to a place so familiar yet so foreign. A strange remembrance that only exists from experiencing life and culture as youth. Things remain the same, people remain the same, though, not quite how I left them. All-the-more familiar, and all-the-more forgotten. The return, in rush of memories and intoxication.
Here’s a small glimpse of my time in Oahu. I have to admit, I was slightly biased as to what it would be like. And, being there, completely removed all those preconceived notions that I had floating around in the sunken depths of my skull. It made me fall in love, over and over again. With fallen flowers, the fluidity of ebb and tide. With first light that hits the beating shore. With reflections of strangers, masquerading as myself. Air. Fresh, crisp, air. And the nectarine sticky-sweet, sun - fading too briefly to sting.