I picture your feet, walking on the hard concrete of the city streets contaminated by pungent smells of beauty and elegance; there is a heightened sense of nostalgia that fills the air, perhaps for all those lives that have long ago strolled along the intricate avenues and graceful bridges that compose the poetry of a city we call Paris.

Your steps, contemplative yet determined to find truth behind the corner facades of balconies decorated with colorful flower pots and white flowing sheets. Wonderment takes over your fluctuating mind as you observe ordinary, mundane events taking place in a peculiar yet extraordinarily familiar stage.

As you sip café au lait served in a hand-painted porcelain cup, you place your knowledge on the brass tabletop searching for the words to define what you know to be real in your heart. The morning sun shines gently on your face as your mind fills with eloquently-formulated constructs and intellectually-pleasing concepts. 

But as evening falls, you come away with an internal sense of disappointment, for no matter how wise and sensible its pages may be, no book in existence could ever reveal the complexity of your soul.

The depth of your wonderings resembles the expressions of your subjects portrayed dedicatedly and with incredible precision by the same hands that now touch the marble walls of buildings erected in a century where architecture was one of the greatest and most revered forms of art.

You, the lone wolf; vampire soul; unprecedented iconoclast instinctively desiring to find shelter under paintings of angels, saints and Gods; an accurate symbol of your human internal and eternal division.

So there, under the vivid pallet, your duality is manifested in very footstep you leave behind. And forevermore, the enchanting and melancholic streets of Paris will hold your essence, but they will never contain your spirit. For, like you, your spirit will always remain free…