Coming back… After a week on the northwest coast of Ireland where the predominant sounds are of seagulls floating over crashing waves or a gale blowing through some oak or pine trees, and having nowhere to run to, no commitments to keep for a week, I now realise was like a meditation retreat. Donegal is a land of hills, hollows, bons, woods and the longent most majestés coastline in Ireland. As my mother rightly pointed out ‘you’re so taken with the landscape that you forget everything at home’. She’s often spot on my mother! And like all good things it had to end. Going back to Paris is never easy much as I appreciate the beauty of the city there’s no place like Donegal. I don’t like running. I tried jogging once, it just bored me. So now I’m back in Paris, I enter the metro ticket into the machine and it squeals a mechanical sound which makes me think it’s a used ticket, but no it’s a good one. Then I hear the metro approach, I catch myself starting to run like the others around me, we grab the handles of our rolling suitcases and run as if there won’t be another train until tomorrow, I even push the round shaped man who’s even slower than me into the metro as the doors make that terrifying, I’m about to cut you in two sound. Then a hissing sound starts just before the outer doors close all the while the warning sound of, I’m going to cut you in two if you chance it, is still screaming then thump the doors close. Tonight I also notice the light, it's much too strong after the soft ever changing light of Ireland. The metro scrapes and squeals, metal against metal sounds fill the tunnel, sparks fly from the tracks and electric blue darts around in the black of the tunnel as the metro leaves and gets swallowed by the black of the tunnel. I’m back in Paris. Everything seems violent to me. The metro doors open fast and noisily, the button I pushed to open them I had to push forcefully. I ascend the stairs with no enthusiasm, the doors that close swiftly behind me in order to keep the non paying out, open and close with even greater speed and noise than the doors of the metro. It's all noise. Everyone else is oblivious while engrossed in their telephone screens and tablettes. It’s midnight. I leave the stuffy polluted air of the metro and for once I’m surprised, and pleasantly so by what I would describe as fresh air in Paris. Now don’t lose the run of your imagination! It’s not Irish fresh air but it’s Paris fresh air. I hit the street with some hope. Paris is not so so bad. A feeling of "it’s ok" hits me, I say hello to an unknown man who’s lighting a cigarette, he looks at me quite surprised but then says ‘bonsoir’ It eventually occurs to me in my tired state that I need to be more accepting of "what is"

"is" and show some gratitude for being here. I stop, close my eyes, breathe and all is well.