29th April, 2020; 11.16 pm.
Let me paint you a picture.
Imagine there is a flat overlooking a narrow one-lane street somewhere in Paris. A narrow one-lane street that has worn-looking daily stores run by old French men who smell like cheese and lavender, who smile at you every time you visit their store and ask how you do.
With wildflower beds lining the cobblestone sidewalks and old signboards lining the moss-covered walls, the street isn't a busy one. And the smell of coffee and freshly baked croissants flow from the cafe just a few buildings away, through the bedroom window every single morning.
The flat is small.
With colourful marble counters in the kitchen that are suited for ladies in their sixties, it looks nothing like those clean-cut modern homes. An Oak dining table for two that is never used sits in the corner of the room, and instead of food, stacks on stacks of books cover its surface.
Coffee mugs from a day prior soak in the sink, and boxes of takeout and packets of chips fill the garbage can; the kitchen looks used. An once orange carpet spread out in the centre of the living room is now old and frayed, but it's never been replaced. Because even though it looked drained from its colour, it's still soft on the feet.
The old box tv set that sits on top of the coffee table reminds you of the year 2001, when things were more valuable and easy at the same time. And the magazines lying on the floor always constantly remind you to clean up. The wall is in an awful shade of yellow with just the right amount of photographs to make it look aesthetic.
Messy bedrooms with colours that don't match, small French windows that are painted bright red flung wide open, to let in the bright sunlight, on clothes scattered on the floor. A small tiny balcony that could barely fit two chairs and a skylight blue with somewhat a view of the Eiffel so far away that it can be mistaken as a telephone tower.
The sweet smell of flowers flow upwards from the little flower shop on the other side of the street every evening, and the girl who runs it waves enthusiastically at you whenever you see her watering the plants. The smell mixes with the smell of the lit cigarette in your hand, and it stays wrapped around the red fedoras, stripy t-shirts and winter scarfs of colours, colours and colours.
Nothing is ever black. Nothing is ever dark.
Even the nights are lit up with the sodium lamp posts marching on the streets, and soft glows emitting from the shops. Some violinist resides on the floor above you, and the bittersweet melodies of her playing hang in the air as the sun sets every day, keeping you company.
Loud laughter, music from the nineties, overfilled ashtrays and lousy tv shows are what the flat is made of. And it is home. More of a home than this wretched city of yours has ever been.
So, tell me this truthfully, when a picture is this vivid, is it so very wrong to find oneself lost in Paris, so very wrong, that they forget this world where they reside now really exists? While dancing in melancholy, is it so very wrong to ache for a life mooring like a boat in an unknown yet known tranquility?