I woke up very early today, before the east straw orange all over the concrete colored buildings of this city which nobody writes about. Strange is the intimacy of the early morning, with only the breath of the north rousing coldly the grey pavements, sweetly for everyone who was still sounding asleep.
Today, just like most days before it, is mundane yet strange, like some old Hitchcock movie at 2 AM, creating unexpected destinations for nostalgia and for loneliness, each in sweet proportions of coffee and sugar that sits on my desk.
But I want to go back to bed, slither between my cold sheets, pretend that I’m not getting used with cupboard life, but I’m eating breakfast soon. And I’ll be off with the early city traffic, walking hurriedly over white strips, cutting red lights, commuting, panting.
I wish I could curl up the whole city between my fingers and my palm and sit right next to you, on the green soccer field, “the feeling of a thousand raindrops flooding my face while I run chasing grasshoppers and the thought of not caring whether I stain my socks or not…”
20 something, quarter-life crisis, loss of love, name it, nothing's weird.
