I'm not sure. Maybe it's the weather, the color of the sky exactly reflecting the winter grey of concrete. And the coolest kind of light. Or maybe it's love happening somewhere near, so strange and unavailable to be. Or maybe my soar throat or four exams still before me.
Sounds fall on my desk heavily, my skin is dry and cold. I don't seem to be capable of keeping a cup of tea warm in my hands. It is the time of sleeping, time of not being. Time to be passive among books and piano music.
She wrote: I'm so lonesome I could die.
And I'm dreaming of colorful tulips in the springtime and fresh wind with the smell of sea and soil being born again. My pale face describes it best, all the things I lack indicate the most beautiful moments with endless vivid structures under the skin.
How one can possibly be so weary. So out of life, tied to it only by some bizarre bonds of habit.
She wrote: I'm so lonesome I could die.
I replied that reading it and all my emotional reactions to it didn't change much.
Nor did sending it in, she wrote back.
No comments:
Post a Comment