I know how spring looked like all these years, with leaves and flowers exploding in trees, glad to get their coat of shivering life back on, with noisy tides of people flowing on alleys, their faces enlivened by some weird enthusiasm and hopeful eagerness, happily overtaken by an unexpected flash of sunlight and relief from the blank burden of winter. I know how mornings feel like in March and April, when the kitchen window looks just like honey and when coffee tastes best on the windowsill. I remember how the first walk with my legs bare feels, and how hiding my coats in a dark corner of my closet seals away a season of livid thoughts and high peaks of emotional poverty. Yet I always forget about the wind.
It hits me in the face and chest and rumples my clothes and makes me question my ability to stand on my own feet, it makes fun of my hair, like a hairdresser on acid trying out all possible ways to tangle my blonde locks into turbulent cascades of gold, flowing up and down and all over my cheeks, sticking on my sore lips and whipping my eyelids with playful spite. It slows me down when I long to fly above the ground, it shrinks my pride and trembling figure, it tries to steal away the things I hold on to, lurrs me into places I’ve never been before, promising to catch me if I dare to leap into the most deceitful desires. It blows out the the sturdy patience that has kept me from destroying the priceless grain of trust that I somehow found, after endless years of silent storms in my guts, and turns big words into a bigger parody.
Now I have to learn how to dance with it all over again, neither walking against it, nor letting myself carried away by it.
* Wearing Zara sweater & T-shirt, thrift trousers, Jeffrey Campbell boots, vintage earrings
* There are still a few more days left to enter the TinaR giveaway – more details HERE