I left pieces of myself in Paris.

Some of them I won’t miss, others I am finding as I start to unpack my bag that spent an extra day in the Detroit airport, but there is a piece of me that I’m not seeing anywhere.  I’m a little panicked because I need this piece,  it’s essential to living a normal productive life and I’ve signed up for a normal productive life.  I’m entrenched in normal.

The piece of me that was starting to feel self important, solitary in my journey, was left in Paris.  I’m pretty sure I dropped it in one of the hidden street markets, or during rush hour on the Metro.  Without that piece it is clear that I’m one of many, a tiny life living side by side with millions of others.  That piece can stay gone.  It’s good to have perspective.

Then there was the comfortable piece.  I remember having it when I left Phoenix, but I must have set it down in the little store that I went into to buy Katlyn some gloves.  The store owner didn’t speak a word of English and I struggled to speak her language.  Or maybe I dropped it when Maggie got her hair cut and the four women in the salon smiled at me, and I smiled at them and we tried to get through her haircut with only a picture.  All I know is at some point I was no longer comfortable, I was wonderfully uncomfortable and I didn’t have the time to go back and find out where I’d dropped that piece of me.

I thought I had left the curious piece of me that grew larger in Paris.  Once we got home,  groceries needed to be unpacked and the water heater needed to be fixed.  I searched for the curious piece and couldn’t find it, but unpacking has stirred all of my memories and that piece was in the suitcase.  I’m so glad it wasn’t left behind.

So all and all, the pieces were either left with good riddance or found, but there is one piece I still can’t find, that essential piece that allows me to fully return to my life.

I can’t find the piece of me that gives a shit.

The part that cares if the laundry gets done or if I ever finish another book again.  The part of me that placed such value on accomplishments, that got all worked up thinking I was going to do something special, I can’t find it.

Being in Paris has left me with this odd sense of roaming, wondering and ultimately the clear conclusion that I’m a little tired of trying.  Without my give a shit piece I’m sleeping more and I’m feeling like most of my life is silly.  I’m not sure what the hell all of this means, why I need to make sure I have grapefruit for the morning.

My give a shit piece is missing, it’s back somewhere on a cobblestone street, or maybe it’s in the seat pocket next to my empty M&M wrappers.  I’m not sure, but I need to find it because without it, I’m just going to continue floating around questioning if it matters, if any of this matters.

That’s not productive.  I will do the laundry today, maybe I’ll find it in a jacket or at the bottom of my carry on.  I haven’t looked there yet.

My thoughts from the laundry room.  Get Out of Bed.

crazy life life meaning thoughts travel life lost meaning Paris thoughts travel whatever winging it