I'm in the air again. It's been almost forever now since I've been to Paris. The first leg, LAX to Moscow, didn't feel real. It was a wild ride, right over the north pole. It's strange. Only now, in a window seat just behind the wing and above all the clouds flying south, and the Cotton Jones in my ears, I finally feel the life flooding back.
Excitement is in each breadth again, I feel it. I remember this, I'm younger now. Now I'm older. There will be much to write and I think my hands and my fingers are ready for that now, without the burden of rings. I've been warming to the idea ever since I took them off. What a weird sensation, like having hand-cuffs off. My thumb still goes to my middle finger to spin what's been there for five years now. My last ring had been an old French franc pushed through in the middle. It was bought for me in England by a girl I loved, the only one to really crush my heart. A powerful sway she had.
I'll write to her. Things are good now. Well, better at least. I'll probably still kill myself, but there's charm in the way I think again. I want to pull strings again, against good judgment and sound logic. I'll toy with her ball of yarn again. It's almost been forever now.
logline: heartbroken writer goes to Spain to jump off a pretty bridge, but instead fall for a wonderful beauty of distraction instead.
