First of all, this is not a travel guide to Paris, or "What to Do/Where to Eat" piece. This is a modest journal on my perceptions toward, impressions of, and curiosities about Paris. I will not detail everywhere I went nor suggest a similar experience. I will attempt to offer a holistic image of my Paris. And no, Paris did not "change" me, but the city elevated my framework for writing, and creation in general. So for that I must be thankful.

I traveled to Paris mid-January for one week. I think timing for Paris is integral; a winter Paris and spring Paris are two completely different sights. It is clear why Paris in full bloom is significantly more attractive for tourists; however, I would encourage people to visit in the cooler months. The contrast of romanticism and death produces a uniquely visceral, evocative translation of the city. In short, a winter Paris juxtaposes life and death in its constancy and variability - a writer's paradise.

A combination of spontaneity and planning shaped my Paris itinerary. By nature, I am comforted by organization, foresight, and activity. I am the traveler who will wake up earlier just to be a part of the way the sun rises and the people hustling to work in a foreign place. Needless to say, I arrived in Paris with several predetermined destinations. The several renowned art museums, being at the top of that list, surpassed my expectations.

Humanity's propensity to document life through the arts forms the basis of my work as an individual particularly attracted to words. Pursuing English through my college career has undeniably been accompanied with fear, anxiety, and doubt. Anyone who truly knows me could defend my inclination toward security, deliverables, and high performance. Switching from my university's business school to the English program was truly the scariest leap I have ever made. I often openly question this major's validity in the modern workplace, especially with the rise of technology. However, in Paris, and abroad in general, my insecurities about my connection to the Humanities dissolved with piercing clarity.

Bravery to grow, honesty in fault, passion for more - all these things I admire so much in people I found again in the arts. Paris' catalog of life in its art, architecture, and culture manifests an image that cannot ever be captured in its fullness. But, as artists, that is precisely the never-ending and never-fulfilling mission. There is a need to create. To shout something in color or in pen, regardless of who stops to notice the differences between themself and the color or the pen, and also the commonalities. What is the priority? Can we see past the material, or look within the material to see something more. Even the most complex, articulated paintings are at their fundamental purpose extremely simple. Knowing that life is simply difficult. Simply emotional. Simply misunderstanding. And we learn that through the art created for us and what we create for ourselves. It is the story of us and it is the only story that will remain.

If you go to Paris - and go to Paris - walk alone and take inventory. I promise you will feel different about something. And that is the point - to not understand but to know you must be gravitating toward something recklessly new. Do not lose the sensation of being completely in and out of yourself; that crossroad of now and the next minute. Connection without attachment, and appreciation for all of it.