Words are perhaps the only medium I have for understanding what happens to me, to those around me. Words let me articulate, to try and grasp for sense, when perhaps there is none. And so it is in the geometric shapes of these things we call letters that try desperately to materialize sounds that float like bees from our mouths into these concepts we call meaning that I try and try and try to seize, in a vain effort, what it is I feel.
But feeling, truly feeling, is not a matter of words of all...it is a silence within the locket of a heartbeat trapped within the walls of my ribcage.
Life is shifting like these words that are fickle and float about me in my mind to my throat.
So much seems like it is changing, changing, changing. Life as an ex-pat materializes and dematerializes in a mirage of circumstances. People here today are gone tomorrow. I realize this is not unique to life in the city of Paris; it is a mere microcosm of a larger dance of ephemerality. Nothing is constant, nothing is eternal. And yet I get attached.
I uprooted from California and unattached myself only to become attached to Paris; why cannot I chop my roots entirely, survive without them? Why must my heart ache for something?
I have a dreams and plans but am terrified by the possibility that life, the cruel mistress, might have other ideas, might want other things. Does she know what I want? Does she know what it is I think of at night before I sink into the realm of unconsciousness?
Does she know that for every human being going to sleep as I write this that there are a million and one dreams she is crushing and others she is accomplishing,
does she know how infinitely ephemeral and immaterial she is?