"She wanted to die, but she also wanted to live in Paris."-Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary
That is one of the most beautiful strings of words that I've heard in a long time. It's a string of words that makes me feel. Where I am is a dull, pale ocean, but where I'm going is a marvel. Paris, my honey-colored lover. I'll meet you soon when my lungs are ready.
And I was coincidentally drawn to the novel Madame Bovary when I was at the Strand last weekend. I had to have you, but I didn't know why. But now I think you're just what the celestial doctor prescribed.
I have a difficult time believing that I'm real. I see myself so objectively that I think every word that falls out of my lips is a lie. If personality is is an unbroken string of successful gestures, then no wonder my vision of myself is shattered. I can't utter a word without tearing it apart in retrospect.
I close my eyes, and all I see are the sunglasses.
The sunglasses I'll wear in Paris one day strutting down cobbled streets.
The sunglasses I'll wear in New York walking to the publishing office.
I see lots of striped dresses and peacoats in candy colors.
I also see the other sunglasses.
The sunglasses I wore in high school to shield my tired eyes.
The sunglasses I wear Wednesdays after crying.
But I never wear sunglasses to hide. I'm always making a statement.
My gait transforms when there's plastic resting on my ears.
My breathing eases. All of the muscles in my body melt.
I'm hot and I'm heady and I'm ready to take you on.