letters for my memories,

[emile doisneau]

I need you. I am lost, and confused, and the entire world is falling at my feet. I miss your smile, and your words of comfort. I could really use a ray of hope right now. Tell me I will pull through, that I am strong enough for this. Everyone around me is so certain, and bold, and you know me—I am not sure of anything anymore. There is so much to know, it's bewildering but intoxicating all the same. I want to know everything, and here, there are people who do—or they think they do, and arrogantly strut around like they own the world. I am secretly waiting for the moment where a brilliant bolt lightening will strike them down. But it's the expectation here—to know everything. If I don't, I may cost a life one day. It's stressful, and I don't know how much longer I can endure under these pressures. No one understands that I only want to know and learn—saving lives, that's too godly for me. I don't know what I am doing here anymore. Don't get me wrong, I love it here. I just wish I could remain student. Wouldn't it be the best career? To always be learning, and exploring, instead of, just knowing. Knowing in and of itself is so dull. I love the late night studying, the moments when I suddenly understand something, and the curiosity to know—it's a yearning unlike anything else. But knowing, just because, without anything else, except, the pride of knowing, I think it's the most devilish, and godly state of mind one can come to own.

And the cold. I miss the cold. I just want to stand at the shore, eyes closed against the wind, and take in the intoxicating spell of the ocean—like we always used to do. Do you remember that? Sneaking out at midnight, just to see the moon in the reflection of the water, and the stars scattered innocently against the velvet sky. Paris is alive, it's true what they say, but it's almost too alive. Every breath is taken for granted, and too eagerly; it's almost the same as not breathing at all. I can't wait to come home and take a slow, full breath. And finally see you. I haven't met anyone here with your light—with the joy of living in their eyes or with your laugh. It's a shame, but I guess it's just another reason for me to come home soon. I'll hug you, and I am afraid I won't let you go for a while—but that is to be expected I suppose. I wish you were here at least. You would enjoy it—maybe even teach a few people how to really breathe every now and then.

The ocean is different here. She is sadder. I think it's the nearness of the people, and the absence of the cold. And even though the sun is lazy—sometimes it's warm, and sometimes not, it never warms you inside, how it does at home, even when it's frigid cold. I wish you were here. Or I was there. Just for a moment—a moment of freedom for the two of us.

Forgive me, I just realized I was rambling again. Tell me of your most recent adventures! I want to know everything. I can imagine you are dancing on a hilltop somewhere, with the breeze toying with your hair, and you're weightless and giggling. It's how I picture you, whenever I think of you. You are a shining light in my life. I think the world would be quite dark without you—it would be filled with arrogant graduates, stealing all the wonder and explaining every phenomenon they stumbled on. It would be tiring and dull. Maybe I would be one of them. Sometimes I think I am. With all this knowing, and memorizing. But I'll be home soon, and we can visit mère océan together. I think she misses us as much as we miss her. Promise me, to tell her that I love her and miss her as well—and that when I come home, I will tell her more wonders of the world.

Thank you for being my strength and hope Leta—my sunshine in this dreary place. I wish I could offer you something in return. I hope life is treating you with the kindness and beauty you deserve. Don't change, don't let your light go out.