For a number of years I have come to Paris. Those stays have usually been for a few weeks. This time I decided to stay much longer. I have my apartment for four months.
I thought that that much time here would entail many adventures that I would want to write about. Before I left home I set up a blog. My plan was to post those daily adventures.
Once in Paris, somehow that blog, and the stories that have seemed to spontaneously appear for posting on it, have taken on a life of their own.
It is now the second half of October. I have begun to notice a curious phenomenon. Real events and imagined events and dreamed events and invented events have all converged on my writing in a manner that makes them indistinguishable from one another.
They all have begun to assume a mantle of coherent reality. It has become as if all of them, even the dreams and the imaginings, have really happened.
And there is another thing – an unnerving thing.
All the events – once written - have incrementally woven an increasingly complex fabric of a compellingly real and coherent story. Witnessing that story unfold has become a major component of my life.
I can’t help but wonder where it might be leading me.
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