Your Lonliness Tells You That You've Sinned

Paris seems so unobtainable to me. That bohemian Parisian lifestyle that only poets, artists, and their muses seem to live seems so far away, so long gone. I've only longed to live that lifestyle since I was like twelve, but now reality hits me. It's impossible. The poets I fantasize about are dead or never existed. Their muses are only souls trapped in paintings, that never walked the earth.

I have a friend from Paris that moved here to Chicago about three years ago, he's one of my closest friends, and he's one of the only people I've told about my dreams of Paris, and he said that my dreams are too far fetched, that Rimbaud is dead, and that even if I find what I'm looking for in Paris, it won't be the way I envision it. He says that I can be a promiscuous poet in America, that it isn't that much more special in Paris. I merely told him that he doesn't get it, and he said that he does, and he knows it doesn't exist.

Jean-Marie is a Capricorn. I know tons of them, my boyfriend is one. But Jean is a total Capricorn, not born on the cusp of Sagittarius and Capricorn or the cusp of Capricorn and Aquarius, as my boyfriend is. Jean likes to be blunt and blatant. It suits him and his black hair and his sarcastic disposition. Yet, he is stable in that sense for the better. He doesn't believe in fairy-tales and won't stand nonsense or beating around the bush. He is sweet though, and he promised to take me to Paris someday, but I don't believe what he says about the Parisian poets. I'll find them. I will. I know I will.

Yet his bluntness and incredible ability to pull me out of any outrageous flight of fancy made me a bit unsure. Maybe that time is long since dead, maybe Pig-Alle is merely a tourist destination now. But I'm used to getting what I want, it's terrible, I know, but I will be sure I find something like my Paris. Like my Rimbaud. Maybe what I find as my Rimbaud won't be a poet, maybe it'll be a painter, musician, or even from Paris, France or even Europe! I just might all ready have two Rimbauds. My two favorite Capricorns might be my Rimbauds, though he was a Libra.

I dunno, Rimbaud made me want to be a writer. I wanted to write like Rimbaud just as much as I wanted to write like Lester Bangs or Legs McNeil. Rimbaud's life captivates me. His long nights with beautiful women, his fiery relationship with Paul Verlaine intrigues me. His premature death saddens me. "A Season in Hell" relates to me so much it make my knees buckle. I convinced myself at twelve that I will go to Paris and bring me back a poet. just like Rimbaud. Now that I am older, and a teeny tiny bit more in touch with reality, I feel that I will never, ever find a poet that would publish a whole book of poems about me.

But if dreaming is all I can do, I am happy with that. Dreaming, hoping, wishing, whatever is a perfect release. Sometimes reality just is too blunt. Bluntness is great, but fairy-tale dreams are fun. Jean keeps grounded, sure, but my Aquarian dreams and need for freedom is stronger. My boyfriend encourages me to work hard and focus on "the now" but it's just so much more fun to get lost in your own little wonderland of swarthy, subtle poets and flighty, bright-eyed painters. But I'm happy with my sarcasstic bookworm and virtuoso romantic if I'll never find my Rimbaud. Hell, I'm happiest with my own personal virtuoso.