You said to yourself that it was too cold and that was why you could barely function. It was either that, or the weeks-long stagnation of the spirit. You tell yourself you are going to get it right once and for all: have your own house with decorations that are most in tune with your identity, in a place that you can finally think of as a permanent home rather than a waiting room. You have been from one waiting room to another, and are unsure whether they lead anywhere, whether the process will ever end. You are also not terribly sure if you actually want it to end. You sometimes think that once you get past the waiting rooms, something will happen, something beautiful and pure and right. Something that will abolish the sudden moments of dramatic sadness, random urban alienation, those mood shifts, and reconcile the collapsing worlds. You will no longer think of your own passing, or that of those closest to you, no longer delve in scenarios of unhappiness out of masochistic urges, or in abyssal streams of consciousness.
The city, oh, the city. Sometimes you are the city, sometimes the city is in you, sometimes the city does not exist, or is something so detached from who you are, even as you pass right through its heart. The city in daylight and the city at night – such peculiar dualism to which your mindset adjusts, and which appeals to different beings within you, with different dreams and different nightmares.
You need success and fulfillment in order to open up. Is it right? It might be ingrained – inherited or caused by nurture. Unfolding at your most vulnerable seems impractical anyway, what a silly thing to do. Put up walls and let flowers climb them.
I ate everything I had in the house -red and purple fruits and chocolate, then I took the first train and stopped at the station where my train of thought decided to let me go. It was all empty, I smiled to myself, and nature witnessed. There is a journey ahead.