The Soul of My Footsteps

Today I decided to let my feet take to unfamiliar paths. It was warm. The first warm day in many days. With my comfy baskets (sneakers) and a light wool trench, I leapt several steps of faith. Walking down quiet, desolate streets. Taking turns sharp and obscured. Exploring the edges of my familiarity. Many come to Paris filled with expectations of nostalgic beauty. Some are rewarded. A few, disappointed. For me, Paris is not a pit-stop. I don’t come to plunder or appropriate. While it is true, I am a stranger in a strange-ish land, my footsteps continue to bore its soul. Embedded, my thoughts wander, wondering the hows and whys of my journey. What is it about this place, this time, these memories cached in no particular order? I was not supposed to be here, not just here in Paris, or in Brooklyn or the 46 years gifted to me. History, written by the winners, is always out of reach, though I try to brush my fingertips across the spines and pages shelved in the halls of greatness. A picture frozen, not in time, like they would have us believe, but frozen out of a necessity to reason and reconcile. A pause. A moment to gather the whispers just before a scream. The edges brought into focus. Framed by fear and love and everything else in between. To bear witness. Or is it to bare witness? To see with tunneled vision. This journey, my journey, continues, and as always, I invite you along for the ride.


























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