Last Words

"... like this was the last day, like these were the last words, like you don't ever want to forget how..."

Paris.

In Paris I learned that the hardest part of writing is getting your ass in the chair. Getting your fingers on the keyboard. Putting pen to paper. 

Every day.

I learned that Paris isn't even a place. Not a city you can just walk or fly to. 

Not a classroom you walk into and routinely put your head to a desk. Paris doesn't even exist. 

Not if you don't want it to. 

I saw a man talk about how sad and how lonely paris could be, smiling widely the entire time, smoking a cigarette. 

Another man spoke of the gritty, godforsaken corners of paris, and how to survive there you need to keep your dreams afloat with the bleeding, broken dreams of others. 

I think that place was called Brooklyn. Or did I dream that? 

Paris was where I came to escape the crowds and harsh weather of other places. And though the rain is much colder there, and the crowds often twice as hostile, the sun shines brighter than anywhere else. 

And, with paris now behind me, I am afraid I may not have the words to describe what happened there. 

I may never have the words. 

But something changed, in paris. Part of me stayed behind, even as I took a piece of paris with me. It appears that, the more you give to this city, the more you are allowed to take away. 

I'll never miss the pieces of myself that I gave. Every pebble I took away from paris, even the ones that lodged in my shoes, is worth more than its weight in gold. 

And every time I hold one of those pebbles, i'll think of that far off place.

And smile, thinking of rain and the city lights.

Thanks, Nelson.

C.G.