Dawn rises languid, and beneath a gentle snow drift the Romance of Paris is stripped bare, until all that remains is the bare humanity of Just Another Capital City. I listen to The Strokes, dance as I walk, air guitar and drums, just like home, I am at home. No longer a voyeur, but a bit part player, a tiny fish in a vast sea of Them.
Without Her, this is as lonely a city as ever was. Cruel, almost, in its Ignorant Grandeur. But I can still find Peace. I can still jump on a concrete ledge as the chorus hits. I can still startle the other pedestrians with a surprise grin, and a heart felt bonjour.
It's just another day.
As an Outsider, I can cry for the Paris that was. The centre of Bohemie, the heartbeat of a movement, when every man was a philosopher, and every woman a muse. Now...now every one is a survivor, stepping in time with the Universal Trudge. Here to there, my life, your life, a job to do, necessity over indulgence, the faces of the Parisiens carry no more or less of Now's Sad Truths, though the Ghosts here are closer, less...earthy, than those at Home. They are tangible, if you open your heart. The music helps that. A soundtrack always brings things to life.
I live the cliche, because I can, and because This Year, I aim to create. I fall in love with her as I read her texts, walking by the Seine, toward the Tower Eiffel. I stroll by the most famous Art Gallery in the world, and barely glance at it, because my eyes are heavenward, and my arms are stretched out to Her, as though I can feel her across the channel, Love's great reach, a psychic caress, close your eyes my darling and we are beside each other, inside each other, Time Travellers, explorers of all that has been between us these ten years, and all that is to come. This is what I create. This is what she creates. I can feel us both surrender, and nothing is more sensual, more Paris, than complete surrender to This.
I am standing up for this Great Chance.
Why would I not?
And Her, she is just so...
3 more days.