Good Morning, Good Day, Good Night, Dear Paris... Farewell

This is to Paris. This is to the artists, and this is to the tourists, and this is to those who travel through, and this is to the natives.

I came to Paris, so excited and ready to set the world on fire (in a good way), that I didn't gave a second thought towards anything else. We had secret identities, and we wrote about crayons. Crayons! Crayons and bricks and love, and not being robots and space camp. I'm a robot going to space camp now.

I was so ready to wander the streets and see everything, and paint cathedrals of light and life and love. And then I stumbled into bad lighting... I saw myself in a reflection, and saw the streets around me. This was Paris; this was the ghettos and the slums, and everything wrong. I never made it out until now.

I had drawn such beautiful art, and I decided to sell out, and I didn't get anything out of it at all. I tried to be something not even important, and pride and ambition had swollen my eyes, and then I saw corrupt and dark things. Forgive me, sweet, sweet Paris. I had lost myself in my excitement.

It occurred to me today, the 8th of January, 2014, that I had been wearing glasses, and I never needed them. They fogged up, and blocked my vision. I feel in a puddle of mud, and they were stained and covered. I took them off today, only to wish to return to the beginning, to try again. What's done. . . is done.

Paris, I'll do better. I'm not going to college. I'm going to Art School, and follow my passions. I learn what is considered important by wise people who have seen You, and through the public library. Raoul, f--- off! "If you haven't dropped a chandelier on anyone, you aren't in love", said the wise and patient zen master of Paris. I never followed Harold Miner, and I should have from the start.

But I hold no regrets. My final words as I kiss this goodnight is this: I regret quitting my stories. I should have never stopped, FORGETTING WHAT YOU ALL THINK OR EVER THOUGHT!!! I should give more Grand Slams, and no one has claimed GRAND SLAM!, so you know what?

'Shawn Milke, congratulations! You have earned the self proclaimed honor of receiving the GRAND SLAM! May your works go down in legend.'

Suck it! I may not speak the words you want, but I gave myself something to enjoy. I didn't realize this was for me.

This was for me, from me, around you. You didn't matter, and sorry Paris. I should have known sooner that You only want us to succeed, and not worry about impressing You. We made You proud every step, until we lost sight of what's important.

I wanted this short; this is really long. Whatever, man! This is it. I'm slamming the door on anyone and everyone. Except that one person I promised a grand adventure. I'm not mad at you, and I wish you would just say something to me, because I'm to busy fixing myself.

Hears to the anagram friend, I wish you wrote more. You know who you are. You did so well, and every piece is something to savor. And the girl who follows the sun down, you got the GRAND SLAM! as well. Because you were honest, and I wish you weren't so honest. But f--- me, it's not about what I want. You wrote for you, and good job!

And everyone else. I don't know... I wish I could go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on aodn onad onadondaondoandonaodnoanonn ------
Until everything blurs together, and I understand who you were, and who you are, and what you want to be. Because I do care. I do care. I do care. I wish I cared. I wish I cared more. I couldn't care less than what I felt. I feel like I need more.

So, Paris, I hope you understand now. I wish I could echo through eternity, just to tell you what it meant means to me. It's more than I thought, or ever wished for. I wrote some grand things. I wrote some trivial, meaningless nonsense. You were the wiser one, dear Paris. I'll leave you with one last song, and I shall leave, and this place will build dust. Remember me, Paris. Remember me, and forget I was ever here.

Paris. . . Farewell.