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Train ride thoughts

Train rides, like showers, are meant to be a creative pit, am I right?

By Bérengère BalteauPublished 10 months ago 4 min read

Dear you,

The train ride back to Paris feels sweeter when writing to you.

What an exciting introduction, don't you think?

I would like to be honest with you for a minute. I have not written anything valuable (in that, I mean: that I am proud of) in months. You may be wondering, what happened? Growing up? Becoming an adult and having things to do, a job that requires a lot of my energy? Time to adjust to this life, this new rhythm?

Let me say something: You are absolutely right.

And yet, what can I say?

Sitting down on the train back to Paris, unsure what to feel, I am coming back to you.

I might be ashamed to say out loud that I have consciously ignored this part of myself that longed to express herself on paper because I thought it would make me a better adult. Perhaps also to feel a sense of control over what I felt and what I thought I should feel.

This evening, while I am sitting on the train back to Paris, I am slowly realising that I am in this familiar feeling instilled within me in the past couple of months. I would like to call it - L'entre-Deux. ( Yes, yes, I am French; therefore, I am allowing myself to use french words and expressions)

Having moved to Paris for a job, I have understood that my life and future did not lie within the restricted walls of where I grew up. Although I dearly love this place, this city, I am deeply aware that I have no career prospects in the region that saw me grow up. And I clearly can not allow myself to see this city as so. I have always had big dreams that led me to magnificent places; although they were the products of my imagination, they were real because they felt so.

But every time I go back home to my family, it feels as though my new life is far behind me, although I was in Paris the day before. And when I am back on the train to go to Paris, it feels like I have never left.

The "entre-Deux" - The illusion of "where do I fit in all of this" and "where is my place"? It is the " I am not quite where I want to be and whom I want to be" but " I am not where and who I used to be". The In between.

Because my heart does not belong in Paris, I am sure. But it is not back in my hometown, and of that, I am sure as well. So where is it?

Because although I cannot call Paris "home", I like the person I am becoming here: resilient, strong, independent, seeing the good in herself every day, bubbly, smiling ( and that, dear you, is how people at work knew I was not from Paris) hopeful…. But I do not feel at home.

Something is significantly missing from my life. A sense of purpose? A sense of belonging? Perhaps. But It feels as though I have always had this longing for a purpose, that it made me the person I am today, striving for more, not only from the world but from herself. Perhaps I want more because I know I can have more if I work for it.

So dear you,

I have not written in ages as growing up and becoming an adult forces you to choose what should come first on your to-do list and what should be prioritised. But I will write, and write more than I ever did. I will take every opportunity I have to write. Because, as they say, practice makes perfect… Well then, If I want writing, which still makes me happy, to be more present in my life… I would even say: Prominent, the quintessence of my daily being, I will write more, even if it is terrible at first because, let's be honest here for a minute, this article was terrible.

But it is a good start. I like a good start.

With all my Love,



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About the Creator

Bérengère Balteau

And I have spent hours wondering what to write here but, just like the sailor, I too, have found myself lost but always on my way. So I write, hoping that one day, my words will reach the red light above the cliff, and perhaps I'll know.

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