Paris Syndrome

Tell me I was right.

Tell me Paris was beautiful. Tell me the Eiffel Tower wasn't a cliche. Tell me the cafes weren't too crowded. Tell me the rain didn't bother you. Tell me the croissants weren't overcooked and tell me the tour guide's accent wasn't too thick.

I know Paris was always only a metaphor.
I just wanted to be inspired.

I wanted to go watch a concert in the park tonight, but nobody else wanted to go. So there goes that feeling in my stomach again. I thought only teenagers felt this way. Now I'm saying things to my son, trying to hurt him. I must be poison.

I spent the afternoon trying to explain Caitlyn Jenner to my mom. I don't think I understand it all myself.

I'm not a woman inside, I just want to be inspired.

I just want to be inspired.

I bought this book like 10 years ago.

Then last week at the thrift shop I saw this:

WHAT THE $%*#?

But I've dedicated my life to Paris, as if Paris were the only place a creative person could dedicate his life to. But I created a Twitter with the WritersParis handle. But I purchased a domain name at WritersParis.com. But I've had students buy me calendars and journals and bring me back things from Paris. But my wife bought me a picture of Paris from Ikea. But I had Paris tattooed across my back in Old English. (Kidding.)

I've struggled to work on my novel this summer. It's much easier to tell wide-eyed teenagers they should be writers than it is to actually be a writer myself.

I guess I just want to be inspired.

So whether it's Paris or San Francisco, I don't know.

Maybe it's Lehi.

Maybe that was the point all along.

ripe love

High school fell in love with Summer on a Friday.

He loved how free she made him feel.
He loved her smell.
He thought she was hot (but so did everybody).
He sat in backyards and thought about her.

She made him want to drink lemonade.
She kept him young.
She burned him.

And when September came, it was over again.