After four weeks in Paris...

I have come to believe that it does not matter where one lives. The "where" is not as important as the "what" we do once we're there. The world is filled with people, and all people are very similar. All people need to love and to be loved. All people have their fears and insecurities, their own will, their own wishes and dreams hidden somewhere inside. But most of all, I think all people have a soul that needs as much nourishment as our hearts and our bodies.

I have seen a lot of people the last four weeks, in the subways, in the streets, in the bars and cafes. Often they look like zombies, sometimes healthy and strong, sometimes holding hands or making out, but nonetheless there is a certain limit to their depth. A lack of vibrancy, curiosity; a level of complacency or acceptance, which outweighs the will to seek self-betterment. And I think when a man, who lives and feeds in comfort, allows himself to sit in that comfort, he also dies of starvation in a very real sense. The soul, bereft of passion, shrivels and breaks.

I think there is a fire inside us all. Sometimes it lies dormant, but it always wants to be heard.