I gave up on sleeping this morning at 5:02 am; given that my alarm would be going off in 23 minutes, I decided to hell with it and got up, got ready and left the house. The sky was still deepest violet as I walked to the metro station, and in accordance with the habit I’ve established over the past week, I put on my headphones and turned my music up. I try to down my thoughts in noise, but sometimes they still seep through the cacophony.
I’ve had kind of a difficult week. It kicked off with an unhappy conversation which basically set the tone for the past seven days. I’m brittle; I try not to think of it, because if I do, I’ll be paralyzed with anxiety and grow depressive and insular. So I take my feelings and lock them up tight. It’s only at my weakest moments in the middle of the night as I lay staring into the pitch black of my room that they seep out of the corners of my eyes. I wonder whether they’ll eventually disappear if I hide them deeply enough. Part of me hopes so, if only to avoid those blink-fast-or-cry moments that catch me unawares, when I’m reminded of what I gave up to come here. A city, even a beautiful, interesting, historical city, is a poor substitute for the warmth and security of the friendships I left behind.
Sundays are a kind of temporal black hole in Paris. Any business that could possibly be of use is closed, so one cannot run any useful errand. Thus for the past three Sundays, I’ve hidden in my cave of a room and waited for the day to end. I’m getting sick of it, so I decided that next Sunday I am going to some landmark—I don’t care which—so that I may get to know Paris, Sunday by Sunday. I’m beginning to realize that I paid a high price to come here, so I may as well get the most I can out of this journey.
I’ve had kind of a difficult week. It kicked off with an unhappy conversation which basically set the tone for the past seven days. I’m brittle; I try not to think of it, because if I do, I’ll be paralyzed with anxiety and grow depressive and insular. So I take my feelings and lock them up tight. It’s only at my weakest moments in the middle of the night as I lay staring into the pitch black of my room that they seep out of the corners of my eyes. I wonder whether they’ll eventually disappear if I hide them deeply enough. Part of me hopes so, if only to avoid those blink-fast-or-cry moments that catch me unawares, when I’m reminded of what I gave up to come here. A city, even a beautiful, interesting, historical city, is a poor substitute for the warmth and security of the friendships I left behind.
Sundays are a kind of temporal black hole in Paris. Any business that could possibly be of use is closed, so one cannot run any useful errand. Thus for the past three Sundays, I’ve hidden in my cave of a room and waited for the day to end. I’m getting sick of it, so I decided that next Sunday I am going to some landmark—I don’t care which—so that I may get to know Paris, Sunday by Sunday. I’m beginning to realize that I paid a high price to come here, so I may as well get the most I can out of this journey.
It's ok to cry. It feels suprisingly good Claud. Trust me don't bottle it up. Just let it out into your pillow so others don't hear. You're a stones throw from London, so 'stiff upper lip and all.' Miss you Claud.
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