There is no way to avoid the mess. The mess you made of your life, of your body, of your sanity, by giving everything you have to pleasing people you will never know. Do you like this life? This life that you dreamed about?
I miss Paris Métro. I miss our futile attempts to read the Métro map. I miss Parisians' effortlessly chic outfits and modernistic ads that oddly harmonize with dim, historic stations. I miss taking photos of approaching trains. I miss the feel of déjà vu in old, metallic trains. I miss the amicable chuckles as we mispronounced the stations. I miss the days when my biggest troubles were figuring out where, when and what to explore at Paris. I miss myself.