![]() ![]() I abandoned my hometown, upset by the clusterfuck of 2021, with nothing left to lose and in search of something – not quite knowing what that was. And so, here I am: in a small one room apartment in Paris’ city middle, right below the roof, with the plumbing broken and the sewer-flavoured fluid of all kinds all over the bathroom, no laptop to write, listening to Taylor Swift’s re-recording of her classic Red. Kissing by the Seine, smoking in a bistro, running through the Louvre, chaining oneself to the Cinémathèque française and then ending up naked in a bathtub with the crew: classic!īut then, Paris is not all that fluffy, as the Netflix hit show Emily in Paris postulated in the most clichéd way. Take Paris: ah, the city of love, mythical spot of romantic legends of all kinds, from the Hunchback of Notre Damme to countless Nouvelle Vague films. Part of that is of our own making, but just as often it happens to be the product of outer influences conjuring a spectre which dissolves into myth. A new record of our favourite artist, a familiar longdrink at a bar we’ve never visited, the first kiss with a person we are smitten by – it can all horribly deviate from the images we conjure within our mind. And what’s worse is that it’s a psychological prerequisite to almost every aspect of life. It leads us to make impulsive choices and ignore our inner voice. Nowhere else do we encounter a stronger polarity than when we confront our inner perception of what something could be with the actual reality in place. Expectations are the compass of our life. ![]()
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