Paris

Felt inspired after roaming around the River Seine.

Her name was irrelevant, best to be left shrouded in an innocuous cloud of anonymity. Her age was equally unimportant, yet the nimbleness in each of her steps reflected her youth. She wandered aimlessly down the wide sidewalk that surrounded the River Seine, the sky hazy and overcast. All of Paris seemed to harbor a dreamy opulence that quietly conferred with the curious whisperings in her mind. She took a seat on the cobble stone path and let her legs dangle over the edge.

Looking up at the immaculate bridge before her, she was rendered with a soaring hopefulness that was nearly as evangelical as the mystery of the city and all that it held. She thought of all the people who had been here, who had cried and created here… who had loved here. If only for a little while, she felt utterly and completely free of any ties that once bound her to the physical world. She felt like she was being lifted from the cage of her fragile body. She watched as life as she knew it simply melted away, granting her the ability to see with a sight that was beyond her eyes.

A great buzzing of emotion welled up inside her heart, as though ten thousand voices joined together in harmony rather than cacophony, ten thousand dreamers, ten thousand artists, ten thousand kindred spirits who once granted themselves the indulgence of being swept up into a bout of reverie that was both equally as short as it was long, as powerful as it was seldom powerful enough.

She lied back on the hard ground, locks of hair falling loosely around her face. She closed her eyes, allowing herself the decadence of basking in the Parisian air. She smelled the rough acridity of the stone beneath her, the pungency of the river boats’ gasoline, the contrasting sweetness of coffee brewing in a café above. She heard the sound of laughter, the swoosh of coats brushing against legs, birds chirping, and car horns blaring on bustling streets.

 She took a deep breath, wishing she could somehow soak up all the wisdom, all the heartache, all the passion in that this place had ever been touched by. She wanted it all, she wanted to have and to hold every daydream, every idea, every feeling it had ascertained. She wanted to know the story of every couple that had lazily strolled its streets. She wanted to have witnessed the building of every architecturally brilliant structure; she wanted to see every photograph that had ever been taken here, every painter that had ever painted here. She longed to converse with every philosopher who had ever, like her, been filled with the notion that this place, that this world, this life, offered more than people knew how to experience. She wanted it all, wanted to drink it up, wanted to experience it in one surreal flash of intensity.

She opened her eyes, feeling so light and far away that she was overwhelmed with the belief that if she peered out into the river’s murky water, no human reflection would be looking back at her. Perhaps, her face would have been replaced by the wide and endless sky, freckled by wisps of clouds and brightened by rays of sunlight. The river below her would serve as the blood running smoothly and seamlessly through her veins. Her bones would be comprised of the buildings and bridges that had been here so much longer than she had. She would feed off of every bit of energy and life and inspiration provided by the pedestrians that walked across her flatly paved skin, her heartbeat the steady rhythm of their footsteps, her voice the voices of many, her soul the souls of ten thousand dreamers who had walked this very path before.

She pushed herself up and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs, staring into the river, the water ebbing and flowing in tranquil succession. Her rippled reflection stared back at her, and for a moment, she felt a pinprick of irrational disappointment. Though she knew she could not really have disappeared, she almost wished that she did. She almost wished that the earth’s floor had swallowed her and set her soul free to be whatever and whoever she was inspired to be in each new second.

Her eyes met the eyes of the girl in the river. She sighed, letting her unattainable wish sail away with a passing tour boat. Maybe, one day, when she returned to the dirt of the city she loved, her human eyes could be returned and exchanged for the eyes of the sky and she could see and be all that she desired.

She stood up, drawing her coat tighter around her as a biting fall breeze enveloped her. She took the first step, knowing that she had many, many miles to walk before her legs would eternally retire. Do not misunderstand; she did not want to die, not yet. She wanted her skin to be rich with experience and adventure; she wanted her eyes to have seen many things that they had not yet seen. She wanted to be many things that she had not yet been and she wanted to be those things for as much time as she was granted. When her lifeless body was shut up into a casket, she wanted it to be warn and old and immeasurably grateful for the endless slumber.

She was not morose nor was she morbid. She was quite the opposite. She was bestowed with a romanticism that was as much as a curse as it was a blessing, a zeal so overpowering that it wanted to bend the rigid, imagined limits of life and death and worlds between worlds and moments between moments.

She walked to the Lover’s Bridge, ascending its climb, her fingers lingering on every lock as she passed by. She wanted to know the history behind every one, the people who had placed them there, and the hearts they represented. Legend has it that if one places a lock on the railing of the bridge, kisses their true love, and then throws the key in the river, their wishes come true. She herself had no one to kiss. There had been boys before, and there would be boys after, but right then, she did not feel as though she needed anyone beside her. Her heart belonged to all the life she had lived and all the life she had yet to live.

She retrieved the lock from her coat pocket. She fastened the lock to the bridge, its silver shell sparkling back at her. She held the small key tightly in her enclosed fist, the grooves of it digging into the soft skin of her palm and leaving pink, irritated indentations. She bit her lip, feeling torn. She was unsure if she wanted to throw the key into the river. Try as she might, she could not think of anything to wish for. She was dwelling in an insatiable ecstasy, a euphoric contentment that she could only hold her own hopeless idealism accountable for. She tucked the key into her pocket, deciding to keep it as a souvenir, a testament to all that she had seen and felt on that blissful stroll, a reminder that one day she would know all that she was aching to know when her tired bones surrendered, when she would become the city and the city would become her. 

Reviews

[bablioe223]

How much personification you use made me think at first is Paris a woman! It is beautifully made. It's wonderful!

[zainul]

Very vivid picture of Paris where you thought and expressed with wonderful spirituality.
You presented a lovely story within the story while you walked to the Lover’s Bridge.
Many lines impressed me.
Some are:
1.The river below her would serve as the blood running smoothly and seamlessly through her veins.
2. Her heart belonged to all the life she had lived and all the life she had yet to live.

[Samantha Ciotti]

thank you so much for your feedback, it means so much! thank you

[zainul]

You are most welcome.:)
You have nicely left a mind-print(!) on Paris with your creative talent.
It is not just a travelogue,it is more interesting in other aspects.
Thank you for stopping by,dear friend.:)

[soliloquy]

This sounds like a beginning......keep writing!