It was him who gave me this book. Paris. He knows how I feel about Her. Looking at his eyes I sadly understood that this gift was only a gentle gesture towards that love that he will never support. I understood that eventually I would have to choose between him and Her. Irreconcilable differences keep them apart from one another. He thinks She is dirty, dangerous and without great beauty. Overrated and a thief, She abuses the innocents who come to Her looking to fulfil a dream and She pays them back with a treason. So unpleasant She is, that not even the ocean would like to be next to Her.
And I got trapped in all that hate. With all that love stuck in the chest. Because despite Her bad reputation, I can only see Her lights, and her autumnal rows, and Her smoky cafes. Everyone says it, except for him: ‘Paris d’amour’ And there is where I want to be, and live, and write. Like all the Masters whom she wrapped in her arms, to allow them to create their masterpieces. And I dream about Her, all the time I dream about Her, and the more I dream, the more he pulls my arm, to wake me up, and widely open my eyes, and come back to my reality, that is also beautiful and safe, like a wool blanket and a hot chocolate cup. And She pulls me from my other arm, and I feel Her wild and uncertain, and she wants me to get into Her indomitable sphere, in which I will be able to exist, or expire.