I sat down today at a table in Chefchaouen, Morocco intent on writing an article about Paris, but just could; and I loved Paris. Aside from the 9 Euro pints of beer along Champs Elysee, I loved everything about Paris. I loved the food, the sights, and I even loved the Parisians who so often get a bad rap. But, as I look back on my experience, and as I read my notes I can sense a lack of inspiration.
If you’ve been reading along of late, you may have sensed a dampened tone in my writing, one of near apathy. Despite being completely excited about life, insanely happy with the way things are going with my work and enjoying everything, there is a certain passion that I’ve been missing of late. Perhaps part of it was the strike to the emotions I got in Haiti followed so closely by the normality of the UK.
In Haiti, I felt that at any moment my heart could force its way out of my chest. I felt like every one of my emotions was working overtime and that my nerves lingered haphazardly on the edge their ability. My eyes flickered from side to side with the same force as they do when I’m dreaming. I found myself either smiling or shaking my head at every instance. Every free second I wanted to write, explain my emotions even if only to myself.
Or maybe my apathy was because I had been so looking forward to Africa that I couldn’t concentrate on the places I was.
In Europe, I’m finding it a chore to write, rather than a means of expression like it should be. As I read over my notes I can’t feel anything special, I am not taken back to a particular moment, smell, or feeling. It has me worried that travel being my drug of choice isn’t healthy. Like an addictive substance, “light” travel-simulators no longer give me a buzz. I am in constant need of something bigger, more obscure, and perhaps even more dangerous. Is this safe? Will there come a day that I need to quit cold turkey?
So without a knock against Paris, this will be my Paris article for my trip (although I have some photos to come), because I have learned that I should not write what is on the surface of my mind, but what is in my heart. Writing for me has always been about expressing how I feel, if not for others than for myself.
As I finish off my plate of Kofta in this small Moroccan restaurant, I am listening to strange music hearing a language I don’t understand, and sitting in awe of my view. I can just feel that inspiration running through my veins. So as much as I enjoyed my time in Europe, this – Africa – is what I need right now, because it has my heart beating like the first time I fell in Love.