Nullsphere

On line 8, on my way back home, I was confronted with not one but two occurences of psychos in the métro.

The first sort, an aging woman with her trolley was harmless enough, as she kept yammering on and on about either “asses” or “souls” (in French: “ânes” or “âmes”), I couldn’t really tell which. Nor did I really care. She was talking to everyone and no one in particular in a monotone.

Wow, doesn’t that remind me of someone currently forcibly present in my life who cannot shut up for five minutes and always mutters in a low-ish voice?

The second sort was the aggravating sort that’ll pick a fight if you stare for too long or he feels that you’re not agreeing with him. He came into the compartment smoking and t/yelling to anyone who would listen that he’d DONE TIME INSIDE and he should be feared. To be honest, all it gave me was a burning desire to beat his sorry ass into a pulp with a baseball bat for thinking that it gives him any special priviledge, such as harassing the poor woman who sat across from him.

Anyways, this was soon over as we reached the connection at Motte-Piquet and I continued onto line 6 where thankfully, no one stood out at the late hour. On the bridge, the Eiffel tower sparkled, indicating it was 11pm.
It reminded me of the previous evening, where L. and I had stood in the taxi queue at the foot of it after our trek back from Châtelet. As much as I try to reject Paris, there is an undeniable attraction. Every time I see it sparkle, it reconciliates me with the town, as if the shining sparkles could somehow erase all the ugliness that roils beneath the surface.
Many of the defining moments in my life have involved it in some way or another: high school, its parties, the evenings spent at the foot of the tower in the grass, coming home from high school, going home from parties…

This wasn’t the first time the Eiffel tower had given me a sense of peace as I watched it. It seems to watch over my life and renew my faith that everything will turn out fine, that I’ll make it through in the end.

And that alone is enough to make Paris my hometown, as much as I am loath to admit it. Like a parent with whom you have a conflicting relationship, it’ll always be there for you… like a mother. My mother.

Hopefully this means that I’ll never end up a muttering wreck on the métro.