I’ll try to describe it, but I think it’s only for me

Isn’t life beautiful in the way that we have so many intimate moments with ourselves? Where no-one else is capable of knowing or understanding? A compilation of calendar years that won’t settle to arrange themselves in an agenda.

Like when I finally cried, and it was silent and warm. I loved that drive, past the creeks and falls. It was hard to believe that even those strong forces have their days of emptiness and weakness.

Like when I was dreaming from my third story window, where strange weather days had so much to offer me. Or on the clearer nights when my broken blinds were subjected to the command of bright moonlight throughout October and the bats swished by.

Like how the fall mornings got darker and darker in October but quickly became November. How my pointed ankle boots felt tight around my toes as I fast walked diagonally across cobblestones from the foyer to the train station–late again. How my breath formed clouds in front of me, where the air breaks on the buses heaved as they were making the first stops of the morning. Where I saw lights turning on in the bedroom windows all above me on the street, and when men opened the double paned shutters to feel the cool morning air hit their faces as they smoked the first cigarette of the day. How I thought to myself, should’ve worn gloves, although my quickened pace made me break a slight sweat.

How I would sound out the words of each store front I passed. When I noticed that the sun hadn’t yet shown any signs of arriving.

How I understood my surroundings when I successfully boarded a train or a bus and headed to a new place. How I knew I was capable of bringing myself from place to place and was doing so with more ease each time.

How else could I describe it, when the landscapes painted themselves in front of me and I’m left without brushes or a canvas to create it again.

window view in Beauvais
window view in Paris

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