Dreams

It's not that I do not live you city, Paris. La vie d'amore. J'adore Vous. Je trouve ca belle, Paris.

Mais, But....cold dirty metros and dirty people who I want to help but do not know how- you bring me to reality. The watch on my wrist brings me to reality- the people I work for brings me to a reality I did not imagine before. Paris is not in reality, and it should not be in my reality. It's my dream and it came true. So who needs reality when you are supposed to be living in a dream?

My body is not mine, ici. It's full of sugar and lies. Full of fatigue and lack of knowing. It is full of new emotions and new memories, new loves, and new hates. I am not the same person here, and I ask myself if I will ever be the person I thought I knew before. I ask myself, are we ever the same person as time passes...

I had a conversation with an old painter by the name of Theodore up in Montemarte today. He wanted to paint out picture, we declined, and instead had a conversation in an outdoor cafe to keep him company. He was from Transelvania.

"But i do not drink blood, i drink wine. Therefor I have to pay for it."

He stands for ten hours on the street a day with no liscence to paint. He is 65 and lives in hotel alone. He is lucky if he gets two drawings done a day for 20 euros a peice. I ask him "are you happy with your life" and he says "why should I be, I came to Paris because it was my dream and now im stuck in this life living broke in a hotel alone." This got me thinking. About dreams. Are dreams worth it, and what do you do once you are living that dream?