They always talk. The talking never ends. Sometimes they talk just to cover the silence. To smother it, as though it was some drunk about to give away a deep secret.
I like silence. Walking up towards the Champs Elysees, the silence is still filled, but it’s different. The noise, tourists are comforting. I know this area better than any of them-I live here; I’ve become someone here.
They all walk past me and I walk past them. Friendships are completely situational; coincidental. If any of these people were in one of my classes or a friend of a friend I’d probably talk to them about nonsense, but they’re not. We walk by; it’s understood we’ll walk by. It’s okay that we walk by.
A man: tall and bald. He looks like a caricature of what an elderly man with his shit together looks like. His coat is perfectly fitted, a small scarf tightly wrapped into the first button. His wrinkles don’t portray weakness, but rather an assurance that he has felt enough; experienced enough to be tainted. He looks up and smiles, his mouth fitting perfectly into these lines; making a home out of them. He holds a newspaper tucked neatly, perfectly under his arm. He’s read enough newspapers to know how to handle them.
I smile: an unconscious smile. My muscles know what to do. The mind processes emotion before you even realize it. Emotion isn’t conscious. It isn’t linear. It’s not an outcome of consciousness.
Walking past this man, a wave of confidence passes through me. We are the locals. We have something in common. He doesn’t know it, but I do.
Catching a glimpse of my reflection, I stop. Look at me.
I am Patricia from Breathless. Walking down the Champs Elysees, pretending like I’m Parisian. My nails, long and red, my shirt-striped and tight. I’m put together.
If only 16-year-old-me could see me now. She’d be so proud. My entire life I’ve wanted nothing more than to be Patricia. Patricia was my introduction to what being a woman could be. To be the woman who strolls nonchalantly and inhabits such a romanticized city as Paris; the woman who is the over-romanticization; the woman who effortlessly forces the most badass man in a city to be romanticized with her.
The ‘goal’ isn’t as satisfying when you’re actually in it. The past is always remembered with logic, rubbing in the fact that it’s gone and the future is exciting, tapping its foot and forcing the present moment to slip by through a lens of anticipation.
But the present is merely reality-a medium that’s designed to be easily digested; a moment to be distracted by advertisements or immediate goals, purchases etc. But the past and future hold many options, possibilities and require more than just consciousness. They’re harder to digest. I stare at my reflection. I am this woman. I am the woman I’ve wanted to be my entire life. But I’m not at home.
Getting off of the Champs Elysees, I find myself in a new area. I’m unfamiliar with this area. I’ve never been here. I have no romanticizations. It’s beautiful, but so is all of Paris. It’s comforting seeing all the same architecture, the same colors. It’s a false sense of comfort, but it creates a homier atmosphere. An atmosphere you’re familiar and comfortable with.
I catch my reflection and walk quickly by. I don’t know how Patricia would interact in this part of the city.
A church bell rings. It’s sudden and jarring-demanding attention, forcing one out of himself and into the bell. It’s like a child demanding attention, ignorant to the responsibilities natural to consciousness and ultimately life.
A portrait of, presumably Jesus, is planted on the mantle of the church. The man is huge, looking down knowingly, calmly. A calmness that contrasts the city-gives the city an air of ignorance and naiveness in being so consumed.
There’s something to this man and I’m stopped in awe, as though this moment, this position is the only place of true comfort and being. I don’t wan’t to, I can’t leave.
The sound of the bell mixed with the placement and size of our presumed Jesus gives him an air of power and integrity; an air of wisdom. True humbleness: he knows he’s in control, but doesn’t need to prove anything. The bell/picture combination forces the viewer into a state of comatose; to be stuck; to feel spirituality; to feel small, but still watched over. Is it really God, or just the setup?
Is religion calculated in the same way as advertising? A formula to attract the public-knowing exactly where to place what to make the public feel something, forcing this ‘spiritual experience.’ Is it genuine or created through the environment? I guess it doesn’t matter.
Fruit stand. I’m not hungry, but I’m walking aimlessly and eating kills time. It’s a distraction from the un-familiarness around me. I bite into it. Green and sour. It’s comforting knowing what to expect. When I was younger I thought apples grew as one huge tree and people cut pieces off and molded them into spheres. My teacher quickly corrected that assumption. Remembering that teacher puts something at ease. I don’t know what it is, but it allows for some sort of rest.
Making my own life, independent from my past is impossible, because the past is always with you. It layers and overlaps the present. I’m never going to wake up and suddenly be fitted into this armor of a woman only made of her current; devoid of past realities.
I’ve become a woman here, but when I leave what’ll happen? How do you just be an identity, when it’s constantly changing? Losing awareness of a varying self is a gift; a blessing-to live in the moment.
I’ve created routine and comfort in a city I have to leave. Heartbreak from a city; a city that allows for leisure. A city that’s open and clear, presenting art and romance as something that only gives. Something that’s just resting there for you to smooth over. Something for you to soak in, instead of aggressively and insincerely picking at. A city that holds trueness that stems from something unspoken. But further, a city that lets me be, that doesn’t force competition or a notion of proving myself superior to it. I don’t want to beat Paris, I want to be its friend. I want to go over its house and have it feed me; give me advice.
I keep walking. The apple stays sour. I look down-my last bite. A new perspective hits me. A jolting hit. One of the layers to my armor comes out, putting Patricia far away. My heels slide against the pavement. I am the woman I am when I have empty space. One day my armor will be a compilation. It’s just a matter of time until-
Lights. So many lights. I’m by the Louvre. My bangs run in my eyes. I am Anna Karina. My step becomes triggered, energetic. I am childish. I am naïve. The Louvre is my playing ground. The Louvre has been a home, but is it from the movies or from Paris?
The process of finding a consistent home to fall back on sneaks up on me. To find constants to force my moods into the illusion of some level of stability. Once your moods are stable your perceptions will be stable. But then again, stability isn’t always fun. Stability is limiting.
My armor recollects itself as I reach my door. Maybe it’s okay to have layers-see everything differently all the time. The layers create a whole.
But that whole will change. It’s a false sense of security, a false sense of reality.
I reach for my keys. Putting them in the door, I look down. My nails are bitten, my nail polish scattered, revealing a transparency to my nails.
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