Setting: Girl sitting at Café. Not in Paris. Alone and talking to the audience.
I want to go to Paris. I want to see the halo of city lights illuminate street corners. Even dark street corners. Areas that the bravest of brave hearts wont travel to. Where shadows of denial creep deeply to hide the facade of regrets. But I will have no regrets about being in Paris, alone or with you. Because unlike other cities, Paris is a haven, a sanctuary, and an invitation to the artistic avenues of hope. I hope to someday fuck and fool around in the city the way Henry and June did, or the way that Nin loved June, and the way that June loved everyone and no one all at the same time.
I want to go to Paris and drink cheap Bordeaux and Champagne. The kind that after only three glasses the universe begins to swirl up to remind you that you can be defeated and celebrated in a single sip. And that the cobble stone streets of the French quarter spin in such a way that only the mother divine could produce. Cheap, cheap, cheap wine, the color of crimson and blood mixed to perfection amid my many imperfections, that are now illuminated, just like the halo lights, in the city of spinning, swirling life. Breath it in.
I want to go to Paris, and more importantly Paris wants me to be there. Alone or with you, this is irrelevant. I’ll wear a funny hat that matches my scarf, that will blow in the wind as I stand a midst an inferno of tourist, snapping shots of the Eiffel tower. Maybe we’ll ask a stranger to take our photo. Maybe I’ll put that photo into a picture frame. Then after you break my heart, and I forgive you, and then you break it again, I’ll finally take that photo out of the frame. It will fall behind a dresser where I’ll forget about it until I move. It will be covered with dust and hair and the corners will be faded and the colors will be brown. And when I find it I will look at it and smile and feel nostalgic about our once effortless dalliance and the way my heart broke over you so differently than the previous. But as long as were here in Paris and drunk off that cheap wine, this all won’t matter. Will it?
I want to go to Paris to forget. Forget my schedule, life, poetry, torment, the fact that the chrysalis life cycle is already predetermined…I haven’t seen a single butterfly in Paris. Do they exist? Why wouldn’t they? Every aspect of this city reeks of promise and potential, except if you’re a butterfly, that is. I guess I’m just jealous of this transformation. I hope to transform here. Now. In the city. Sitting at the Cafe’s, outdoor Cafe’s to be precise. Where the wait staff is rude, and blow cigarette smoke through rotten teeth into your face. These are my people. I left my scarf at the hostel. I bet someone stole it. The temperature starts to fall; the sky fades from optimistic turquoise to ominous turbulence. And yet I refuse to leave my table. I ate all the food, drank my espresso, and cried into my moleskine already. What is there left to do at this Cafe? Still I just sit and wait. Wait for you to return. The waiters have all gone home and the street lights illuminate nothing. I feel blind, and alone…again…even here in Paris.