a breath of nostalgia
I don't smoke it for the nicotine, but for a taste of nostalgia. The familiar taste that haunted my nights in Paris. The taste that filled my mouth the first year of university, when I would escape my dorm room to walk the streets of this city, still unfamiliar, cigarette in hand. All I need is a taste.
The past few months have been an emotional roller coaster. I have been struggling to remember what makes me happy, and have been trying to get back to that place inside of myself where I feel good about who I am.
Today I spoke at lengths with three people who have entered my life recently. Three people who listen, share creative thoughts, and make me feel good about everything under my skin. Their voices are a warm embrace when I was starting to convince myself that I was completely alone in this city.
I look up at the sky and see clouds but no stars. An airplane in the distance. My mother is miles away, in a small town in France where the stars shine like diamonds. I ache to be with her, but feel her presence with me, her voice comforting me when I think I'm going to lose my mind. I know she is alone in the house, with similar thoughts as mine, up roaming at odd hours of the night like me. I know she yearns for my presence in the same I yearn for hers. If I close my eyes I can be there with her.
It's strange coming to a time in your life when you have the power to choose what to make of yourself. What to make of your one precious life. It is terrifying and liberating all at once. I want the world, I just need to map out my plan of action.
'Read widely of other experiences in thought and action- stretch to others even though it hurts and strains and would be more comfortable to snuggle back into the comforting cotton wool of blissful ignorance! Hurl yourself at goals above your head and bear the lacerations that come when you slip and make a fool of yourself.'- Sylvia Plath