I need a few more hours of blackness. Not
to sleep, but to think, to prepare myself for the new day, to pour my thoughts
out onto a page and to decide my next move; but the morning resemble to the magnificence of birth where
nothing is certain and everything seems possible; every morning is a fresh
start. Under the gentle spring sun its
rays warm my skin - like kisses from the divine and my eyes finally open to face this unpredictable
new beginning.
The kitchen is quite silent and the air is
thick with the scent of coffee, probably my mum has awoken and made some
coffee. Now I’m sitting in my chair, reading “ The Paris winter” by Imogen
Robertson while I sip my mug of rice milk with a tiny bit of coffee.
-Mmm delicious.-
The tranquillity of the moment jarred my
mind, and I’m forced, once again, to swim in the tide water of my thoughts.
[I’m
so tired of being sad, and still, my life isn’t the way I wish it was. I swear
you I’m trying!
-
Wait a minutes you are me, so
why am I talking to you?-
-
Oh well doesn’t matter,
actually I’ve no one to talk to, so I assume it’s Ok to talk with my self- ]
The other thoughts ran away and now I can’t
remember what I was thinking.
Suddenly my dad came into the kitchen; I
felt the tension in the air and forced myself to smile : once again my dad was
nervous and I didn’t want to argue.
After that the day slowly proceeded and now
I’m here writing and thinking about this evening and the film I’m going to see
with some of my mates. We will see how the evening will turn out, and let’s see
if the night will bring wisdom.
Foxox
