Paris, city of love…
smoking cigarettes on balconies, a coffee shop on every corner, a city full of art, sculpture and fashion, passion, excitement, history and a city I have visited twice before with ex-lovers… and most recently on my own….
Urgh!!
This is all I’ve got to offer and its pissing me off! It makes me want to put my fist through my screen. What is stopping me from writing? What are the blockers in my brain and why is it controlling my life lately? I can’t even keep a conversation going on Tinder never mind write about my solo trip to Paris and a much-needed post on my none existent love life. Is that the problem? Have I been void of a loving interaction for that long that I have lost my motivation to write? Has my lack of love in another human being started to spread through my life, like some kind of inspiration killing cancer? Do I need love to help me write again?
Is this why I’ve been escaping to places alone where no one knows my name? Trying to find something new and exciting? Am I hoping to bump into the love of my life in a Parisian coffee shop and live happily ever after? Or am I looking to get lost somewhere, to disappear for a while and find myself? I almost feel like I have exhausted all my options in the town I live in.
Sat alone on the balcony of my French hotel room, smoking cigarettes and drinking wine while listening to Melody Gardot, I watched. So many couples in the cafe’s below sharing stories of their day, confiding in each other over their evening meal, laughing, happiness from ear to ear. I realised, I could run from my life as much as I wanted but it would never bring me closer to love, I was just as alone here on this balcony as I was back home in my bedroom and no amount of escapism would change that. Only I could change that, I had to change the situation not the location.
Drenched in my reality check I leant back, pulled my blanket around me a little tighter, lit up another cigarette, and took another, slightly longer sip of my wine.
The Life And Death Of Love 