Whenever someone would ask me over the last few weeks, “Why are you going to Paris?”, I’d almost always reply “to write”. That much is true, a big part of coming here was to get away from the habits and distractions I would face at home. The greater reason, though, was a little too personal to interject into small talk. On top of sounding a little too melodramatic, it would have taken about 20 minutes to fully explain to the asker, and I assumed they weren’t interested in a Tolstoy-esque reply when they innocently queried why I was leaving town for a month.
I came back here to search for happiness. I had to come back to Paris to find it, because it’s the last place I remember having it. I know, it sounds like a Lifetime movie. It’s not as if I was never happy after I returned home – of course there were good days and good times; I guess it’s the personal satisfaction equivalent of saying to someone “I love you, but I’m not in love with you”. It’s great to see friends, it’s great to be home, it’s great to see family again… but a certain deep-rooted sense of being at peace with things was missing.