tomber amoureux

The museums in France are exquisite. My favorite is the louver. I find myself inside viewing various forms of art on many occasions. Today a satire at “the kiss”. Charles seems to have left us with so many possibilities. Part of me thinks the woman is passing, that this will be her last kiss. She definitely seems broken, collapsed, and weak. Having dropped her beautiful bouquet on the floor behind her. The bouquet which has shattered, possibly symbolizing a breaking yet intense love.

I often desire this for myself, dreaming of the love that could be. This love however, only comes in fairy tales. It is not real in today's world. I wonder what it would be like to live in that time. With little medicine, or support, it definitely was a time of loss, but perhaps there was a certain livelihood to the loss. Maybe that very loss was a necessity for love. Perhaps the full extent of love cannot be obtained until you have lost someone. You cannot realize how good you have it until you have no one left to live for. 

While I understand this concept fairly well I don’t think I'm prepared to lose someone. To put every ounce of my soul in that person and then find myself farther and farther away from them. To find myself crippled with heartbreak. I’m not ready for that pain, which may very well make me unworthy of love. I’m definitely not prepared for their love. How could I expect someone to love me like that and find myself distant, fearful. Even if this kind of love did exist I would never be deserving of it. 

I left the museum, desiring love, and yet knowing the person I am. That I am dry and distant from this world. This very idea causes me to feel hopeless and worthless. I think of the things I've read on psychology. The idea that personality is mostly reliant on genetics, that I am who I am and will never be able to change myself. The lack of control causes me to quiver. I’ve always wished for more of this life. I think most of that has been companionship. But I’ve always been alone and I’m tired of being broken. 

I find myself going back to my moto. The motto that love only leaves you broken, and now one stays. The motto that I’m 24. I have plenty of time to find someone wonderful, most people get married when they are 30 not 24, that's 6 whole years. The motto that I’m not prepared for love. That I’m better off alone, at least this way I can improve myself. Then desire kicks in, and with desire comes recognition, recognition of how lonely I truly am. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe my whole moto is just a fragment of my imagination. Designed to protect me from the pains of my past. Maybe the best time to act is when you are fearful. Perhaps if I allow myself to stay alone much longer, I will always be alone.

Three weeks later I returned to the louver, I found myself staring up at the same piece, next to me there's a girl. She’s in awe over the painting. Unlike my previous visits to this museum, I find myself entirely consumed by the women next to me. She's beautiful, yet it's clear she doesn't try to be. She doesn't wear any makeup, her hair tied back in a simple hair clip. She has this beautiful brown hair, but mostly her eyes are what stood out to me, the kind of blue you only see in the movies. 

All of the sudden she was art. My eyes solely focused on her beauty, on her grace. I want to know what she's thinking, how she views this piece. I haven't spoken a word to her and yet I find myself struggling, my heart beating out of my chest. I find myself struggling to breathe as each breath becomes more and more thought out. I’ve never felt this way around anyone and yet I haven't spoken a word to her. Not one word. I truly didn't know I was capable of such emotion.  I want to bolt, to run away and hide, but for some reason I can't. 

Every thought in my mind tells me to stop, to find focus and leave her behind. In my mind I feel as though I must control. That I must keep myself contained, hidden. Yet I cannot control myself, every urge in my body tells me to kiss her, to hold her. Yet I am consumed by fear, fear of rejection, fear of pain. When I look up at the painting I remember the epiphany it brought me to. The idea that it is when we’re fearful we should jump. So I muster up several words, unable to look at her while I do so. I tell her the painting’s beautiful and she agrees. I had never struggled this much to speak, to formulate words, but she has this effect on me. 

She makes it impossible to speak, or to even think, but I muster up more words. I tell her my name, and she tells me her name is “Tracy”. The name has never stood out to me before now. It's like there's something about it now it belongs to her. I begin repeating it in my head, what a beautiful name.  She tells me she's from the Americas and she’s moving here in a month. I ask her why she's coming here from the Americas. She tells me she needs a change of scenery. She loves the artistic aspects of the city and could never dream for such an art in the Americas. Later I offered to take her to dinner. 

We went to L’espadon, one of the finest restaurants in Paris. We stayed there for hours, talking about art, and interests, and romance. I asked her what life was like in the Americas, She lived in New York. She told me it was loud, the people were cruel. She wanted to be surrounded by romance and art and liveliness. Everything which Paris is known for. We had been there for hours and yet it had felt as though we’d only been there for minutes. Time moved fast when I was around her. The more I spoke to her the less nervous I seemed to get. The more my chest warmed and my lungs released. I felt myself falling for her. 

Later I walked her to her hotel and with a nervous second, we kissed. And then there was goodbye.