Comme une danse. Dans une ville où j’attends revenir.
You can tell by now, that I obviously miss Paris a lot.
You like to ask me how am I coping so far, after-all a year has already gone by and I should have settled into an old familiar rhythm by now.
Isn’t it?
No. Not really.
My heart aches for Tokyo. It is often too painful to talk about Tokyo. And that is why I prefer to sing about Paris. Then I don’t spiral into the abyss of melancholic yearning.
Paris is a love story, a romantic-comedy.
Tokyo on the other hand, is a good old Kurosawa film noir. .
Never let me go.
Where I used to wake up, grab a melon-bun and a cuppa coffee and ran to class every morning.
Where I got lost in my thoughts on the streets of Takadanobaba trying not to bump into fellow cyclists or worse, old ladies with bags of groceries.
Where I was small but I occupied the city with a soul that soared, wholehearted I loved and I breathed.
When I close my eyes in bed every single night, I think about my Tokyo this way, while I bid goodnight to this almost-perfect life here in Singapore.
I miss not knowing what is going to happen next.
I miss the walks in the park in the crowded streets of Shibuya in the quiet back streets of Jiyugaoka.
I miss being vulnerable.
I miss me, when I was in another city.
