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DarkCrysania

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St.Paul

3 min read
When people ask me what I like about Paris, I always lie - I say it's all about the historical buildings and the cultural side.
Who would want to admit that their just in love with the rush of the parisian subway at seven p.m. on week days, because they like to see young parisians dressed in suits, on their way home from work?

Because I have to admit, french men aren't like the rest of men around the world...
Or maybe not french men, but men here in Paris only.
The city gives them this air, of infinite beauty.
Not model-like beauty, Hell, some of them, looked under a microscope would he really fugly, but, what's the point in doing that anyway?
They have a charm, they are lost in their thoughts, tired after a day of work, tie undone or in the pocket, they are hot, because it's cold outside, and they are overdressed for this oven that is the subway.
Their hair is in a mess, because they keep touching it.
Yet, they seem to have the time, will and strength to hold a book in one hand, and pretend to read it.

Men in Paris, they just glow.
They never see you, because you are invisible to them.
They are all personnal worries... and you don't even exist.

You stand very still, pressed in the crowd, looking more like a little boy, than the woman you are.
In a leather jacket, converse trainers, jeans way too large, hair short, no make up...
And, since they don't see you, you can watch them closely.

The fact they probably haven't shaved in days, because they have so little beard it's unnoticeable from more than two steps...
The fact they nible on their nails.
The way they lick their lips, and try to totally disapear when the crows flows in the train.
The way their clothes suit them perfectly, yet seem to be a total mess.
The way their shoes are polished clean, with just a hint of dust.
Their hair, cut to frame their face, probably so soft...

I love Paris, because, I can watch them, and if I don't do something totally loony, like catch their eye, they will never notice me, dispite me being a few centimetres away.
Noone bothers to look around in the subway... but me.
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There's this feeling of exaustion that washes over you, after a long day of hanging on the phone with one's neurotic mother...
For as long as I can recall it, there was this sentence my mother used to shove into my mind - "Iniciative is punishable". In other words, you think up something for yourself, and do it, and you're gona get in deep sh...
By the age of 16, I figures that no matter what I'm dealing with, if it concerns in ANY way my mother, I'd better ask advice. There were always 80% chances, that on a question that concerns me, she'll agree with me.
Now, being 19, almost 20... she tells me I don't take enough iniciative. That I ask her twice if she's sure I should make the deposit today, and not monday, etc...

Yet, all I feel like doing, is to grab a beer, fall on my couch with it, turn on some Sinatra, and forget everything about her and her problems.
Go out on a date, have some fresh air...
Have sex, because that always manages to calm me down... tho, after this morning's fiasco, I doubt that's happening any time soon...
Guess it's gona be beer and Sinatra then.
At least, he has a sexy voice.
Maybe sit on the windowsil, look out for the sun to set down. Drink in the evening air.

I wish, there was someone to talk to, without having to bother to pretend to be someone I'm not...for once.
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.

1 min read
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Finally

1 min read
I have decided to upload the things I've writen during this past few years.
My stories can be sad, but they all have a meaning to me.
If you really find them interesting and want to know whats behind them, you are welcome to note me.
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Here I am...
I'm so new that theres nothin in here... but there will be somethin
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St.Paul by DarkCrysania, journal

Early Summer Night. by DarkCrysania, journal

. by DarkCrysania, journal

Finally by DarkCrysania, journal

Well... here I am... by DarkCrysania, journal