(Con)Temporary Life

Paris is a wonderful place to find inspiration. It lines the streets, hangs in the morning fog, and escapes from between the lips of the statues on the églises. The city awakens the artist in even the most pragmatic among us. To be able to profit from such surroundings I am grateful beyond words. I may never be as happy with a city as I am today and every day in Paris.

Unfortunately I know I'll have to leave soon. My future and Paris are not compatible. I'm not sad--it's impossible to be sad here. I'm overjoyed to have had the chance to experience it first hand, to have walked along the Seine, to have scoffed at tourists, to have been a Parisienne, however briefly.

I sometimes wonder if it might be somehow even greater to share the beauty with others. Every time I consider it I'm not sure. It can't be put into words or pictures or anything else people can understand and so in a way the experience of Paris is a very personal one. Anyway I remember too well the pain of leaving good friends and will avoid that for a while.

But a temporary life is difficult to lead. I haven't settled because I know I'll just as soon be unsettled and maybe it's easier this way. To love unconditionally is to be hurt, because no one is unconditionally good. But the avoidance of social masochism attracts enough other types to compensate and more. I feel guilt daily that I should get to live in paradise while anyone anywhere suffers. Why our places are not reversed I do not know. What I did to deserve this life and not any other (which doubtlessly must be less fortunate) I ask myself constantly.

Some day soon I'll awake from the dream. Will my legs still be sore from the hours on the cobblestones? Will my mind still itch with unrealizable potential? Time will answer these questions and more.

Yours for the moment,
Miura

Nothing New

Sitting down with pen in hand (I’m old-fashioned that way), 
Muse in mind, and distractions at bay, 
The ink flows freely but into ruts etched by Poe, 
Whitman, Yeats, and Cicero.
Lines that honor simplicities of youth–
Favorite snacks, the first lost tooth–
Bring no novel revelation 
Not first described in Eve’s temptation.
To convey pain in life, love, and all the rest,
I produce noisy reflections of the masters, at best.
So many men have walked the earth,
What can my simple observation be worth? 
Each new connection a thousand times made 
Not only by poets but by farmers, kings, and men on crusade.

Tired, I search for any relief
From my need to express an equally tired motif. 
Never can I think of anything new;
What good is this depression-inducing IQ?

But wait–a thought–could it be?
Finally a worthwhile soliloquy: 
Everything you feel’s been felt before, 
Sung in songs, passed down in lore. 
The beauty of man is not what makes us unique. 
It’s a small standard error; it’s a tall global peak. 
The best way to be happy with life, you see,
Is just to take comfort in uniformity.