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So I didn’t go to Brussels with the Buddhists as I expected this weekend, but it was the first time in a very long time Paris was sunny and warm enough so it was comfortable walking around in a winter coat.

Paris is amazing. It really is. It is enough.

There is something special about it, still, always, forever.

I don’t regret falling in love with Paris at all, and I almost feel like I don’t need to travel, really. It would be a nice extra, but it’s not the only thing in my life. Well, maybe it is still semi essential but the beauty of my regular life is apparent to me again. I am feeling the joie de vivre. I am no longer the shell of a person I’ve been for the longest time.

I treated myself to a massage today, and the feeling rose upon me that there is absolutely nothing I could have done to avoid my depression and all the problems that came with it. Seriously. There’s nothing I could have done differently, and if I had picked an entirely different path in life, I would have suffered from the same root problems even if they manifested slightly differently, although my hunch is that they would ahve manifested the same way whether I became a teacher or an artist.

And so i am finally alive again, in love with life again, feeling able to love again, and the colors haven’t been so bright in years.

I had to turn into liquid and be bound in my coccoon for all that time, but the time is coming to fly, finally.