This morning I felt the first 9 AM chill of summer under my skirt, while on my way to the busiest crossing in town; I was wearing casual nude socks and sandals with polka dots, and with this well-fated pair on my side, it couldn’t have been anything but a perfect start for a mawkish wandering in search for an absolutely harmless simper. Later, I passed by high boxes of flats crammed with disillusioned people, like me, who probably would have panicked much more than I did if they had noticed how fluid their brick coverings, painted in colours that resemble vomit in its various states, had become in the heat of hasty summer. I discovered that I’ve forgotten a lot of things over the past two decades, but I haven’t yet purged that corner of my memory that stocks the most uncalled-for information, such as random names on the yellow labels of most of my thrifted clothes, names of crappy actors, models, tram schedules when I typically avoid stepping in those lugubrious rusty cans on reels more than twice a year, but at some point, I was over-enthusiastically recalling those details that somehow diluted my continuously amplifying fear of becoming a person always sliced between extremes – pathos overflow vs. fugitive unconcern, fulfillment vs. abject despair, too much teeth on display vs. too much salt on my cheeks, thanks to the water that sometimes gets organically out of track and springs from the corner of my eyes, cascades of hacking words vs. hampered silence, overwhelming dog days in this frigid town vs. emasculating cold that calls for hallucinating labour to preserve one’s jugular intact, blue skies vs. black dreams. Thank God that I can still see beauty that blossoms against all odds in this ludicrous pantomime of strayed souls over-worn with an excruciating search that has long lost its object. It was a truly bright day.
- Walls with windows and eyes
- Storms that can’t be fought on 5 inch heels