I choose love.

I’m done, I’m over responding with hatred and anger and scorn and fear and cynicism, I’m just done. I choose love, even when that means silence, even when that doesn’t necessarily mean hope.

No muses here. Just people.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with being a muse, quite the opposite, to be inspiring is a privilege. Nevertheless, I believe it’s wrong to be reduced to one, to shrink one’s existence to a dependence on the other.

Why Paris?

For me, it is the diversity, the variety, the richness and the serenity in it. No other city has so far fascinated me as much with the infinity of quarters, avenues and parks that I keep discovering, all so very lovely and so individualistic-ly Parisian.

But — why?!

What does traveling or moving to a foreign city/country change? Isn’t it just an escape, a temporary illusion that your problems might resolve themselves there, that you might get to be a better and saner person in another place?