《The City of Light》


 The City of Light

    The City of Light is a place to visit, but not to live in. It¡¯s a stage set for dreams, a shimmering illusion crafted by time and tradition. Here is where the lights were born, and they¡¯ve never dimmed. Tourists swarm its arteries like blood in a fever dream, their eyes wide as they drink in the famous buildings and places, each more legendary than the last. This is where people fall in love¡ªor at least, believe they do.


    I always wanted to visit the great iron skeleton that defines France, the Eiffel Tower. It looms above The City of Light, a sentinel watching over the restless crowds below. Take the elevator up, if you dare. From the balcony, the city sprawls beneath you, a patchwork of rooftops, hotels, caf¨¦s, and restaurants lying in wait like hungry traps. The scent of croissants wafts through the morning air, mingling with other aromas that tempt and ensnare.


    The Seine slices through the city, a dark artery running alongside giants. The Louvre, crouched low but vast, sits near its banks, whispering secrets of art and history. Beneath its glass pyramid, beneath the polished marble floors, lies a treasure trove of humanity¡¯s greatest works. Tourists shuffle through its halls, awed and overwhelmed, as if the weight of history presses down on them. The atmosphere here is strange¡ªthe language foreign, the customs alien. Half the voices you hear might be from your homeland, but it doesn¡¯t make the place any less uncanny.


    The City of Light is quiet¡­ unless a foreigner breaks the spell. Cigarette smoke curls through the streets, children dart just out of their parents¡¯ reach, and the city hums with an unspoken tension. Wander further, and you¡¯ll find the Palace of Versailles, where kings once ruled and fell. Its grandeur feels like a trick, a mirage that shouldn¡¯t exist in the same world as you. Inside, the furniture whispers of decadence, the giant glass windows reflecting endless gardens outside. The gardens¡­ oh, the gardens. They stretch on like something from a fevered dream, a riot of blues, greens, reds, and pinks that threaten to swallow you whole.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    In the city¡¯s dark veins, cathedrals rise like ancient gods. Their spires pierce the sky, their stained-glass windows telling stories older than time. Each mosaic is a masterpiece, each shadowed corner a sanctuary or a warning. They are beautiful, yes, but also terrifying. The kind of beauty that demands reverence and offers no comfort.


    Beyond the glow of the city lies the suburbs, where life slows and the streets grow wider. They resemble their American counterparts but with a softness, an abundance of green that feels almost unnatural. Further still, the farmland begins. Vast fields ripple like an ocean, shifting colors with the seasons. Here, the land whispers of sustenance and history, its soil soaked with sweat and time.


    And beyond those fields, beyond the comforting green, lies the sand. It stretches out like a wound, a scar on the French landscape. This is where blood once soaked the earth, where one of the first battles of World War II raged. The French remember. The land remembers. Every grain of sand seems to hold a scream, a cry, a prayer.


    Back in the city, the maze of streets twists and turns, disorienting even the most determined traveler. The alleys close in, the buildings lean forward as if to swallow you whole. It¡¯s easy to lose yourself here, to forget where you came from or where you¡¯re going. But then, night falls, and the Eiffel Tower bursts into light, a beacon cutting through the darkness. For a moment, everything feels possible.


    Stay a night or two, watch the lights dance, lose yourself in the romance of it all. But don¡¯t linger too long. The City of Light is a dream, and dreams have a way of turning on you. Eventually, you¡¯ll have to wake up and go home.