Escape (minute novella?)

I ran away to Paris, sketchbooks and journals bulging in my backpack, and clothes leaking from my suitcase. I let my finances build up for several months, not eating nor sleeping for the anxiety of this plan burned my mind at night. I would be leaving my old life behind, the impending dull servitude of the family; stamping, taxing, lifting, paper and paper, suit and tie, 8 to 4. I wanted out from this impending psychological prison and so I fled.

I became the artist, living in a low rent studio making ends meet, no laws, no guidelines to follow. Where dreams can come to fruition and my linguistic skills improve (hopefully). With dirty house parties and where drunk nerds will stumble and singing 'Les Marseilles', their sweet faces kissing concrete in euphoria. My name oozing through the confines of ears in the clubs and cafe discussions , egos rising and falling in tibal moons. All the while shut away typing away at my desk, the crunch of pencil on paper scribbling; in quiet solitude or with the sounds of angry French smattering from the street below.

Living cheap with old jeans and a leather jacket lurking where the beatniks and futurists roam, cafes and clubs; I'll be there with a coke and a pen. Crooning in broken French or in indignant English  the smell of paints and graphite on my jacket and collar. Knowing full well that I ran away to Paris; that was until my father stepped through the door.  

art for the sake of art?