dérive

I had seemingly forgotten the silent charms of Europe. Forgotten the bewitchment of narrow laneways embedded with towering fanciful facades. And how I envied every hand-laid cobblestone encountered beneath my feet for its covetable knowledge steeped with historical accounts and whimsical tales.

Its cityscape, a different kind of opulence, one that may be misunderstood for chaotic mess and decay to an untrained eye. For me, pure joy to my fatigued senses. From the moment I set foot on proverbial soil that abandoned love affair was once again rekindled. A firm yearning for observation and understanding, for unadulterated air and the faint scent of pine needles and perhaps for tall, dark and handsome to come waltzing by and unexpectedly sweep me off my feet.

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