I miss Paris Métro. I miss our futile attempts to read the Métro map. I miss Parisians' effortlessly chic outfits and modernistic ads that oddly harmonize with dim, historic stations. I miss taking photos of approaching trains. I miss the feel of déjà vu in old, metallic trains. I miss the amicable chuckles as we mispronounced the stations. I miss the days when my biggest troubles were figuring out where, when and what to explore at Paris. I miss myself.
One draws a magic circle around oneself – to keep everything out that doesn’t fit one’s secret games. Each time life breaks the circle, the games become puny and ridiculous. So one draws a new circle and builds new defences.