Then & Now.

I have been inspired. I have become a writer in Paris.

 

 

 

 

Paris. Paris. Paris.

When I first arrived to Paris I wasn't sure where to go.
There were so many different streets and the signs were in a different language. How did one ever get around here for a daily life?

As time continued, every Morning became more and more beautiful with each new sunrise.
The language was still foreign and not many knew what I was trying to say.
I tried to write down what I felt, but no one wanted to listen right then. They were busy.

I watched a women at a Cafe' a few days ago and she intrigued me. She was cloaked with beauty; Not beauty from the face or clothes, but from what she was doing. With her little black pen and navy blue journal she simply wrote and wrote. I once watched her for 2 hours. She glanced up every few minutes and then would write. I was fascinated by this and wanted to know what she was writing about. How was she receiving her inspiration? God? Herself?

After about the seventh day I decided to walk over and sit by her I asked if she was enjoying Paris but nothing come out of her. She simply glanced at me with a smile and started writing again... The man next to me leaned over,
" She's busy."
"Busy? She's only writing... can't she stop writing and answer me?"
The man smiled. I think he knew I had never been here before.
"Paris is where you taste it. Where you drink it up till the last drop is gone. Paris is not a one time event; but rather a lifetime of travel. You cannot visit Paris once and expect anything, you have to continue until there is no more resistance. Until you are the only one here and everyone becomes your inspiration. She's busy."

The story of the women changed my visit from that day forward. Each day held new possibilities and new reasons to be inspired. I knew what streets to turn on and which ones I still needed to explore. The signs no longer confused me. I started to understand their language; their purpose of life.

My little black pen and navy blue journal became my purpose. 

Thank you Paris. Thank you for everything. 

Dripping.

I 
stand
alone
wet
and
tired.
 

Jealousy.

The Coming of Light 

By Mark Strand 

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light. 
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, 
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, 
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine 
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.

I found this poem searching the internet and it caught my attention. 

I love how he jumps right into the poem and grabs your attention like 

he was already in the middle of a story. 

"Dreams pour into your pillows" is one of my favorite lines. 

It makes me picture that it's almost as if it's rain falling onto

the pillow.  Everything about this poem works perfectly; & it's SHORT. 

I love amazing short poems so much. 

I love how instead of bouquets of flowers he says "warm bouquets of air." 

It brings a whole new outlook of what a bouquet could be, 

and that it has a temperature. 

It's simply brilliant & leaves me filled with envy & jealousy.  

With Love.

"We loved with a love

that was more than love."

 

 

 

 

 

~Edgar Allen Poe

Fragile.

Why can't this be easy?
Why do I have to carry this luggage that pulls me down further and further?
Why can't You see I'm too fragile. 
I have never wanted to be a disappointment.
I don't want that title; that heartache.

But here I am afraid of what you will say.
Do I want to hear this?
Do I want to know how bad I failed...
I don't need this.

"Do you hear ME!"

Silence fell.

"Why couldn't you save me?... Why couldn't you carry some luggage?"