Because there has been time. Enough of it that there has been a lunar eclipse... There have been minutes where the white noise began to sound like a song.
(Creatures, Crissy Van Meter)
I feel like only yesterday the Martenitsi were soaking in the March
rain on the branches of a tree in an abundance of pink blossoms. What has surprised me the most is how quickly I develop a routine. Before all this, I ached for a break in the monotony. I felt there were not enough hours in a day to seek out creative outlets. I pushed my personal projects aside and thought reading on the train, noting things down, alone satisfied. It felt as though it happened overnight, everything slowing down, being at home, I marveled at the chance to recollect lost time. Where
did the time go?
I open my eyes to the warm smell of a home made cappuccino and sunny-side up eggs on toasted bread. Some mornings the cooing doves are like a sweet nostalgic song. On my excursions, the same man painstakingly paints the fence outside his doorstep at the top of a hill, the same woman pushes a stroller and pulls the leash on a tiny dachshund that has to gallop to keep up, the same rabbit crosses the path, the same man is perched on the stone steps outside his apartment on a conference call, the last time a carton of goldfish crackers and a thermos held his spot. The same little dog in a plaid bow-tie on his collar lies flat on the warm concrete outside his front door, fenced in and bored out of his mind, lifts his head up to look at you as you pass by and collapses again.
I've build my days around cocooning myself at my desk by the window, the clattering of the keyboards, the creaking of the floor and chair that I sometimes mistake for my spine, anticipating the excitement of the kettle whistling, the evening woodpecker interrupted by the screeching neighbor that sounds like he's summoning a demon, watching the black cats in the windows across the street who sit side by side like a mirror image unaware of one another, their dark silhouettes flatten like two dimensional shapes on the windowsill on sunny days. The snowdrops and daffodils have made room for tulips, with their bright red and orange rubbery flowers that open and close with the coming and going of the sun. The violet flowers on the path I like to take have lost their vibrancy and fragrance, and the magnolias have rotten brown on the edges and fallen to the ground. Spring has finished blooming, but I've only just begun.
I open my eyes to the warm smell of a home made cappuccino and sunny-side up eggs on toasted bread. Some mornings the cooing doves are like a sweet nostalgic song. On my excursions, the same man painstakingly paints the fence outside his doorstep at the top of a hill, the same woman pushes a stroller and pulls the leash on a tiny dachshund that has to gallop to keep up, the same rabbit crosses the path, the same man is perched on the stone steps outside his apartment on a conference call, the last time a carton of goldfish crackers and a thermos held his spot. The same little dog in a plaid bow-tie on his collar lies flat on the warm concrete outside his front door, fenced in and bored out of his mind, lifts his head up to look at you as you pass by and collapses again.
I've build my days around cocooning myself at my desk by the window, the clattering of the keyboards, the creaking of the floor and chair that I sometimes mistake for my spine, anticipating the excitement of the kettle whistling, the evening woodpecker interrupted by the screeching neighbor that sounds like he's summoning a demon, watching the black cats in the windows across the street who sit side by side like a mirror image unaware of one another, their dark silhouettes flatten like two dimensional shapes on the windowsill on sunny days. The snowdrops and daffodils have made room for tulips, with their bright red and orange rubbery flowers that open and close with the coming and going of the sun. The violet flowers on the path I like to take have lost their vibrancy and fragrance, and the magnolias have rotten brown on the edges and fallen to the ground. Spring has finished blooming, but I've only just begun.