finding and foundering

Once I was lost in my freedom. Walking the streets so many days alone. Walking home so many nights, alone again. Every afternoon was mine to spend freely. I could sit in a cafe and read any book at all until the sun went down and dinner called me back along that already old road.

If it rained I could stop and draw the raindrops. Equally I could walk, and get wet. I had no one to impress, nowhere to be, everything to see. If only I could have shed my central nervous system! Left my brain on a bench somewhere. I could have drifted on as joyful and inconspicuous as a plastic bag on the breeze.


Instead I remained this whole being, being human. I found or maybe I made this space for myself. I found the people who would sit across from me in the cafes, who would want to know which book I read, who would care that I made it home okay at night. I found a home more fully mine and now I'm preparing to leave it.

On the metro these days I am always pressed for time. I am happy as I hurry but a part of me yearns back, turns always back. I miss the days when I could have sat that seat and watched the parade of faces and footwear until bored, even recalling that boredom was a constant menace which threatened to drain all clarity and charm from my life.


I think a lot about boredom these days, but it's all in theoretical. I think about a lot of things and I don't stop to worry about conclusions. Some crazy idea has settled on me, like maybe there really is time for everything. Even as I put off the overdue, even as the sky and rain and buildings and days crash in on me. Even knowing that moments of life end and never come again, fear and disappointment leave me some breathing distance.

So I breathe, and try to lay away sure memory of each scent to reach my nostrils. Paris stinks in the afternoon and sweetens of fresh bread and fresh breeze in the morning. Paris is my home but I won't even know what that means until I'm gone.