Our Fugitive Years
It was infatuation and intrigue, fascination and obsession. It was many things, but it was above all curiosity which kept me here. Paris was a vision of fragments, creating an amalgam of different thoughts, different states of mind that I challenged myself in putting together, anticipating wholeness, hoping for coherence.
I wasn't limiting myself by saying that this was the climax of all discovery, of all analysis and exposure, but Paris had a way of tainting everything. I knew that after each change in place, after each shift in direction and intent, an inevitable comparison would always ensue. Everywhere else was sealed off simply because it wasn't this moment, it wasn't immediate or present. It wasn't here.
(I never knew how happy I could be walking alone)
I had reached the apex of all satisfaction, the culmination of all fascination and awe. Learning was ongoing, yes, but I knew nothing would shock me as much as it did during this time, nothing would seem as new. Wanderlust suddenly took on a different meaning, concentrated around something much smaller, building from more probable ambition. I would practice that curiosity for years to come, but it would never hold the degree of meaning, the overwhelming gravity it had today.
It wasn't stasis. Instead I was looking forward to the regularity of its appearance, this tempered penchant for adventure. I was turning my back on the negativity I felt in human fate and instead gave into the connotations of destiny.
I would never be as happy as I was that spring in Paris. Any effort to mask this truth was futile. I reveled in it.