Here’s a short travel journal from my recent trip to Paris. I’ve been holding off on this post until I found the right words. I never did, instead softness. A softness which allows me to write without limitation, without doubt, without fear, of the words that never come. To drift with them, in lightness, and hope against falling. Writing is like that. It’s never the words but the non-words behind each broken sentence that expose the soul. To live with such softness isn’t without threat of the knife. I hope to do my best in the telling of my time this winter.
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.