TIME // IS // JUST // A // THING

I have lived here for a year now. University started this Monday and it is already messy, everything, really. The cat meows all the time, but when I put on "The Smiths" it sits calmly on that purple couch, eyes closed, listening, purring mildly. Summer is fading, it was a short one, so short that I almost didn't get to wear all my summer dresses at least once. I have learned new things, about myself and the world, gladly appreciated to discover a city I have never visited before, and managed to fall in love more deeply than ever. All in all, a summer worthwhile. So autumn can come, and I won't be longing no more for that roof terrace of yours. Autumn may come, and I won't miss how your eyes would grin against the sun, squinting on the very hot days in July. I especially enjoyed those days by the lake. Biking for a bit too long, we have found that secret path; on day two they cut down the reed by the shore and we had a clear view. You swam across a few times, while I was wondering about the future, filling out cross word puzzles or reading about the war, and planes approaching the nearby entry lane. I think of this summer as this intangible thing, because it was so short, it almost seems as if it never happened. Now that you are gone, I sometimes wonder if I made you up. How come you are at the other end of this world now, while I am still here? How come my memory is full with all this intangible beauty, whilst time is already counting down for our reunion? I will be here when you return. I sleep in your sweater sometimes. You left a bunch of those, that's good. Sweaters and shirts. Things that remind me of you are of abundance here: Vanilla scented candles, those sandalwood incense you hated, your blue toothbrush lying by the sink (it reminds me, I didn't make you up, you chewed quite a lot on it), the rose you gave me when we last met, it's dried out now, placed on the shelf you put up one night, next to the stove; there's still the smell of you everywhere I go, it's haunting me, perhaps. Biking by your house each day, sometimes passing that bar where I first saw you during a late November night; realising that the person who took over your room likes to keep the blinds shut, but the lantern in front of your window will always burn at night. And the crane by the corner, that building they were setting up, it's sky high now, blocking all the views; oh so glad we made of the roof terrace the best we could while you were still here. And the birds are gone now. They will return about the same time as you. I will be here.

LOST TREASURES

So at 1.03 AM on February 19th 2012 I decided to eat a whole pack of peanut butter M&Ms and contemplate about the things that surround me. Two days before your 25th birthday, a lot of things really stop to make sense, and other things start to make a lot of sense. For example, the fact that I write  a lot started to make great sense. It's the only way I can live. Whether it is a song or a story or a rather bad drawing with an awkward description, its very much all I am. There are a few other things that make sense. Like pistachio ice cream. Or fried bananas. 

Last week I saw somebody wash their MetroCard at the laundromat.

I thought that was sweet. That way they can re-use it without having to worry about Bed-Stuy germs in their jeans back pocket. But Brooklyn doesn't make sense. There is nothing beautiful about it during the Winter. It is just senseless. Hot ciders, heating blankets, a sketchbook, those things can make it better. You know what I'm talking about.

These strolls along the river make me think. I am silent. Sometimes I talk to the squirrels or the various birds that hang out under the Manhattan Bridge. They know me there. Some of them even call me by my name. "Anna, you seem out of it today", they wonder. "Don't worry", I say, "I am fine!"...

Sometimes I find angels on the street. I wonder where they come from. Who lost this angel? Who would purposefully lose an angel?

One must never stop wondering.