Dragging

The other day I set out in Paris on a self-guided Jean-Paul Sartre tour. I was so excited. I had found an article online that walks through all the cafes he frequented, places he met with other notable people, the Sorbonne, and his joint grave with Simone de Beauvoir. 

It was going to be great. I didn’t have to spend money and I was going to see so much of the city! But right before going to the Sorbonne, about halfway through the trail, I just slowly wound down until I had to sit and I didn’t want to move anymore. I wasn’t excited anymore. I didn’t want to do anything anymore. But I wasn’t tired of walking. I wasn’t bored with the sites. It was like 50-pound weights on ropes had suddenly been slung over my shoulders and I lacked the strength to move under its heaviness. 

If you’ve seen Inside Out – the Pixar movie about a little girl’s emotions – it was like when Sadness sunk to the ground after getting lost and Joy had to drag her by her feet through longterm memory.

Often I feel like that. And there was nothing to do, but call it off and go back to the hostel and lay down. At least I wasn’t disappointing anyone, since I was alone. 

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