I spent the afternoon reading Nicole Krauss in the Jardin de Luxembourg. Lying across a bench while the sun turned me into a deeper hue of Shinji, I found myself for the first time in a long time completely at peace with myself. The whirring in me stopped. There was quiet, at last. This city is doing something wonderful for my heart. It’s healing. It’s heart therapy. Sitting in a café afterwards I noted the feeling as some sort of twilight, a candle burning. No breeze. A stillness. A breathing stillness. Something you would expect from a summer. Something you’d never expect to find inside of you. This year has proven to be so emotionally draining, and I’ve been sleep-deprived and everything-deprived and both numb and constantly on the verge of some great influx, some great wave, of something. I began this summer off heading into every direction away from myself. A taste of a beautiful summer. A week in Tokyo where I was always on an emotional high or wading in some emotional low and never was I at peace with myself. (It was the strangest thing. I can’t describe it. I laughed and cried even in my sleep, I feel.) And then London, where the rain left me feeling soggy. And then here, in Paris, being so content, so brimming with this pulsating calm, feeling like the world is breathing around me, loving me again, tying up the loose strings that I’ve broken in the past couple of months. Healing me, healing me. This city is healing me. I feel okay.
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