Rain had a way of lending the usually seedy-looking 11th arrondissement an inebriating charm. A scent almost like the little dish of pennies I kept on my nightstand permeated the night air, while small ripples on the glistening asphalt turned the ground into a shifting tapestry of light. I crossed my arms tightly in a futile effort to keep myself warm and balanced – between coming down from ketamine and the assault on my senses, my powerful strides felt like they were leading me downwards and backwards and every other direction but where I needed to go.
I just pushed on.
Intending on going home, not knowing where home was.
***
The past weeks had been trying, as much as I’d tried to self-soothe by denying the acknowledgement of such hardship. This feeling, like merely existing rather than being alive, had been one of the bastions of my adolescence – and yet at 21, I’d hoped this phase had been left behind as conclusively as low-rise jeans and pop-punk music.
I couldn’t help but muse about what an accomplished human I could’ve been if I’d put half the determination I did getting into trouble into more substantial endeavours. My phone vibrated inside my pocket, fueling my inner monologue – was it Nick? The thought of him sitting on the shitter, trying to craft an appropriately thoughtful message letting me know what a great time he’d had this evening made me uneasy.
***
As much as I hated to admit it, I knew part of me only wanted to keep seeing him because it’d spite my family to know I was involved with a bohemian musician with a failing career and several near-death experiences under his belt. His side gig pushing stimulants would have also caused quite the stir during family dinners, a scenario which amused me to no end. I could recreate my parents’ scandalized expressions so crisply in my mind: a Baroque masterpiece for the eternal halls of my memory, a knot of chaos and emotion only the likes of Rubens could hope to replicate.
***
A mounting sense of dread seemed to overtake me as I ventured deeper into the unknown, wishing to walk right up to the edge of the horizon and jump. I never felt like I belonged to this world, and accordingly, my soul was entirely made up from the desire to leave it. My mind often tried replicating what it must be like to feel attuned to life – enveloped in a sense of belonging so pure it doesn’t even cross one’s mind to question it.
I derived some pleasure from watching the cast of regulars of my neighborhood, who seemed masters of this craft – older gentlemen ordering cuts of meat at our neighborhood butcher, baristas scrolling through their phones after whipping up their umpteenth café crème of the day, waiters waltzing between tiny bistro tables spilling onto the sidewalk, schoolchildren hobbled together sharing a bag of sweets. The city felt empty, and so oddly peaceful without their hustle and bustle.
***
Maybe I had found my place – in the universe created under the shroud of moonlight, when our gaze is not diverted by the garish gleam of gold. In the hour of the wolf, when the daytime merrymakers hide away safely in their dreams. In the little gaps between the stars, when we’re all reminded of how small we are.
***
And so I walked on, ever in search of a place where the world was always so.
And so I walked on, ever in search of the edge of the horizon.
– love, mia –