Its not parisian per say, the description of parisian largely exists due to years of mass media inserted in my mind,
And the studio is not real per say, it is in my mind, I lurk around it.
The door has an abandoned look, no one would pay attention to this seemingly iron door from outside. the walls of the building are blackish, it is night and there is an orange street light a few meters left the door.
Nothing much is inside my studio, more or less it the same as my current room, a clutter of deeply personal items along with stacks of books, and maybe I will have closet that is simply a water pipe, I would like that. the studio has a table for sculpting. My studio is tidy, a perfect alignment that organizes my day, and a big old sofa. The most important part about my studio is the door. you see, unlike my current door, when I open my studio’s door the whole world is there, and the whole world could be at my door at any minute, it is a few steps away. oh that beautiful feeling of limitless possibility, and an unfamiliar air.
There I am left alone, no need to limitless useless conversations on subjects I dont give a damn about. No need for social obligations. if I want to close my door I have the key, when I choose to open it, I am free. to wander aimlessly, to touch the walls, to soak in the oh so beautiful feeling of indulging my deeply intertwined curiosity, the world is all mine, and at the end of the day, my studio is my safety, its key wrapped around my neck.
I do not want another useless conversation, or another hours wasted in that traffic. To indulge in the freedom of parisian apartment is all I want.
Hence I finish typing with anger flowing through my fingertips, or rather that upper part of my stomach. To be the master of my own time and space. All I wanted today was to be alone, all I got is the exact opposite.
ديسلكسيا حسية 