Carolynn Cecilia

Carolynn Cecilia. Fiction Writer. New Yorker. Whiskey drinker. Vegan. Stage Actress. Music Lover. Not necessarily in that order.

Point Zero. The very center of Paris.

Paris. Day One.

I didn’t sleep on the plane. I took a sleeping pill almost immediately after we boarded, but be it the excitement or lack of comfort I just couldn’t drift. I tried. I had the sleep mask, a small pillow, une petite blanket and Van Morrison on heavy rotation, but nothing worked. Does anyone else tear up just a little every single time they hear Into The Mystic?

After we landed adrenaline took over. Bags, international wifi, taxi to Pigalle, learn the apartment {I can not recommend. Airbnb enough}, unpack, freshen up, walk along a Paris street for the first time in your life.

Adrenaline starts to fade once you’ve been awake for 24 hours. The lines at the corners of David’s eyes are running even deeper from his lack of sleep. How is still so god-damn handsome?

The architecture is everything.

We walked. There was a general idea of where we wanted to go- a park and a nap. Side streets, cafés, cathedrals, French conversations heard in passing, only snippets understood- min, rue, du lait, jeune, quatre- more cafés, an Arc, a Tower, a nap. Three hours of sleep broken into 20 minute intervals. Children playing, foreign conversations, clouds cover the sun and I pull my long dress over my feet, vendors selling trinkets, laughter, clouds disappear and my dress shifts to above my knees, denim jacket is now a pillow.

Just enough sleep to keep it moving.

A café and a pizza. A glass of champagne. We split a plate of cheese and pepper pasta. First meal is Paris. So very tired. David is still handsome. The only two thoughts I can properly hold at the moment.

There are small things to be done on the first day. We need a museum pass for tomorrow and a carnet of tickets for the Metro. We find them both after much searching and what little energy our respite and cuisine afforded us has wandered down a side street off the Champs-Élysées.

Bed. A real bed. It’s been 31 hours since I truly slept. Two sleeping pills and I barely make the decision to not sleep in my clothes. David says he won’t go to sleep just yet. It’s 8:45 Paris time, 2:45 in New York, and I don’t try to convince him otherwise. “You can just lay next to me and work while I sleep,” I tell him.

I sleep for seven hours. Dead, heavy sleep and when I wake it is early morning and I could sleep for seven more if I wasn’t in Paris and the sun is not up , but people are laughing in the streets below our window and David is breathing softly and there is a pleasant chill in the room and I am starving.

Didn’t sleep a wink on the plane so we’ve found a quaint little spot to nap and recharge.

Oh, how could I be a model? I have no illusions about my looks. I think my face is funny.

(Source: vintage-cinema, via laughterkey)


Paris | Obvious State


Paris | Obvious State

(via agentlewoman)

Demain je me réveille à Paris!!!

Love Me in the back of a taxi cab.

Industrial Kitchen Loft Located In San Francisco:
Mitchell Parker Design


Industrial Kitchen Loft Located In San Francisco:

Mitchell Parker Design

(Source:, via think-feel-rustic)

“Don’t surrender all your joy for an idea you used to have about yourself that isn’t true anymore.”

—   Cheryl Strayed (via emotional-algebra)

(via nogreatillusion)

“If the ocean can calm itself, so can you. We are both salt water mixed with air.”

—   Nayyirah Waheed  (via glittertomb) waheed forever (via spiritbreather)

(Source: purplebuddhaproject, via think-feel-rustic)

Nat King Cole - The Very Thought of You

The mere idea of you, the longing here for you
You’ll never know how slow the moon must go ‘til I’m near to you
I see you face in every flower, your eyes in the stars above
It’s just the thought of you, the very thought of you, my love

(Source: salsmineo, via awomaninscience)