Raisons d’être

It snowed today, and it was a peculiar March snow, furious and somewhat tedious, with the ashy sunlight weighing down on every flake. Yesterday I filled my house with flowers. I have white orchids in the window, I have freesies of a silky purple on my writing table. Ironically, I still think of it as the writing table. I don’t write. And if I did, it wouldn’t be at the table; I fear both pencil and keyboard equally. Oh. Silence.
I walked through the dreary snow today, walked for hours. I listened to one song only, on a repeat which didn’t feel like repeat, and found it not in the least worrying. I bought my younger brother a book of fairytales, from a middle-aged hunchbacked woman. We searched together for the book in her little shack, while a man with a thick black moustache stood outside in the snow and smoked, chatting with her. They both laughed loudly, so that they could hear each other. They seemed distant, but there was a funnel-like closeness between them which was rather asphyxiating. I imagined that they had been lovers in their youth, now separated and married to different, distinctly faceless people, but that they still passed the long hours of morning together, him smoking languidly, both chattering by her book shack. I intently searched their hands for wedding rings, but saw none.
I bought myself two books. One of them smells faintly of a woman’s perfume. I feel as if it were a very light book; no, not easy, nor small, but radiant, incandescent. I spent my way home holding onto it with both hands, sometimes running my fingers across its spine. I’ve yet to open it. I fear doing it, lest the perfume and the glow should go away.
It’s a year today. 15th of March, the day when a son is said to have stabbed his father to death. Christophor Columbus returned home. Four Nobel family were born, two died. Liverpool FC was founded. Lovecraft’s relatives mourned him. But it’s only one year since I inked one of the most beautiful words in the world on my wrist. A mere one year. I was told I’d regret it. Today I look at it and feel at least as much love and warmth as I did one year ago. One year is a lifetime – it is for this that it feels so fleeting to you. I’m growing flowers from every crack in the walls of my house. I’m afraid of paper, but keep a notebook under my pillow, and dream, and hope. I’m still learning Chopin on piano, the same song. Time has turned into a monstrous reptile, whose grotesque jaws engorge everything. We dance with farcical moves, flinching from the effort of constantly watching our ankles. My life’s become unidimensional; like mister Frost, I must’ve reached the crossroads at some point, and have now pushed myself onto a certain path. Luckily, one is always allowed to turn one’s head, and, at times, look homeward.

(one of the freesias)



Filed under youknowmeimimpulsive

4 responses to “Raisons d’être

  1. “I listened to one song only”
    May I ask which?

  2. ladyruna

    Nightwish’s The Heart Asks Pleasure First. xD Kinda had to e Nightwish, what with the special occasion… : )
    (and you did not like the pictuuuuuure *pout*)

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