I made a habit out of walking my way through every single morning. I also made a habit out of listening, while I’m at it. Hence, my ipod most often got stuck in one of my pockets, or on the dirty bottom of my bag, it must have gotten confused while there. No more exit, I’ve told myself, and sent it off along with my fear of strangers. In recent times, it would serve as my exit from all that useless noise and, how else could I say it, all those grumpy humorless people infecting me with hatred. So, I got to hear the clap of my heels again, the song of birds rejecting winter, the burst of pink flowers in trees barely feeling like themselves, then people shouting on and probably at their phones before breakfast, people crashing over and into one another, wind blowing into people, ’cause, hey, there wasn’t anything else it could blow into. One morning I even thought I could hear the wind punching my bare ankles and making my hair straighten, rising with sudden consciousness upon its being there, totally defenseless, and yes, ‘cause it’s a fashion to use this feeling as a word, useless.
And God, did I not regret having to pass my mornings like that, in the 8 and a half chill. I kept thanking for it, I’m alive, God, how good does it feel. Living any given moment as it were the best. Wasn’t it? The same park, the same light, pavement and persons to run into. The same depressing and lively street heading to the white offices, adorned with those objects of routine and responsibility-driven grey and screened, screaming and entertaining objects, throwing me into an energy consuming blender, blurring the edge between thought and reality. Where do I begin, now – do this and do that, no, I’m not in the mood, search this and find that, make coffee, drink coffee, make tea, throw up, eat cake, have lunch and raw spinach, smile, oh yes, that’s the thing, now I’ve got the hang of it. Real life, like real people live it. Then leaveeeeee, find the coffee shop right where I left it the night before, my drink right where I dreamt it a night before. My self-blame and struggle of breathing in, breathing out, right where I dropped it, a night and year before. Then, back on missing track and on my way home. Bed, where I never want to get up from. I must be a real hero, but not a human being.
But the thing is, I can stop wherever I need and want to. Or something like that. No one pushes me to do everything and say everything right now and here. There’s so much freedom in these cuffs, after all. They leak out at the first sight of April sunlight. That’s the beginning of the end of the beginning, or something like that. Pass me the wine, please, and don’t forget to drive on.