Saturday, August 13, 2016

Pieces of Paris Part 2

I still find myself going back to Paris and reminiscing on it. Its one of those places that I can't believe  I have actually been to. It was a dream before I went, it was a dream while I went, and it remains a dream even though the pictures prove that I was there and it did happen. And when Paris was happening, I knew I had to capture every moment. I filmed, I wrote, and I snapped pictures on practically every corner. Doing all of this made it even more real to me. It made me grounded in the sounds, sights, and smells that surround and embody the city of brilliant lights. This post continues on with my Paris photo diary, along with the thoughts that bring them all together. I hope you enjoy them, and I hope this little post takes you miles away to a place that really is as beautiful as a dream.

Everyone becomes a navigator in Paris. But not everyone can become experienced and brave enough to get lost in it. You have to learn how to get lost in Paris. It's a humbling experience really. To let your guard down and loose yourself in its light.

The prettiest things about Paris are its imperfections. Its crooked, backwards, tattered little homes. The great boulevards are great because battles were fought on them, revolutions are painted in their past. And as the cars rumble through them you can still hear bumps in the roads, the subtle marks that have been graced by history.

I had to resist not pointing my camera at every cafe. Because the truth is that every time I did, the 
past came alive and i imagined Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Joyce all conversing and creating in the crevices of these cafes. And they were like lost leaves in the dead of winter trying to reach out to spring. 

There is something about the windows in Paris. They hold something special in them. True, all windows are echoes that reveal the worlds deepest secrets, but the ones in Paris reveal the worlds deepest beauties. And so I took my time looking through them, finding the cracks in each one and tracing them until they collided with the outside world and reflected a new version of life. 

We passed Les Deux Magots and it was where all the writers would go to sip their coffee and look at the person beside them and write about that person. And I looked at that cafe and I saw all of these stories just sitting there looking back at me. Some had coffee spilled across them, and some were stained and worn out with the Paris wind. But all of them were still pieces of paper and I handled each one with care. Paris was lovely like that. There were always these little places where the writer could go and meet up with their stories see them face to face as the lines of life paused for a moment.


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