Tag Archives: snow

95. when air grows warm and shallow

i am discovering this world, not unlike a newborn: scent by scent, piece by piece. and aren’t we all?
no questions plague me, no worries weigh me down and nothing seems to matter very much at all. estoy contento.

it’s all about times like this in life: when air grows warm and shallow and eyelids flutter, cascading downwards to close in a sort of tired midnight bliss.
it’s times like this. times where you sit by the radiator, mid-october, and listen to life happen outside your window, noise by noise, laugh by laugh, the voices merging with the wind and night.

and all you feel is warmth, a yearning for a hibernation.
as nights grow longer – a pressing need to forget all and sleep in; to snuggle up for that one moment more, underneath the covers vividly coloured with summer – oranges and fuscia pinks – and dream of snow.

i want the frigid maiden winter and all her hidden joys: falling flat on your face iceskating, hot chocolate held in cupped frozen hands, reading old classics under the covers, red noses, father christmas and the constant sparkle of magic in the air.
i want it all and yet estoy contento with all i have right now, right here: the oranges and reds, the windy mornings drizzling with rain of new beginnings.

i have it all, your fingers in my hair.

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78. i have decided that i will be cold tonight

do you reckon we could make snow angels without snow? we could scrape ourselves against the ground, delirium of cold seeping through our pores. then, maybe then, our bodies would scrape away the frost from the pavement without drawing blood. maybe the ice will shatter somewhere inside of us. i’m cold tonight and nothing will warm me.

more than anything, i’d like for the sunset to come around again.
more violent this time, more primitive, innate; heat firing my synapses all at once with broken impulses. and i want it to smell of freshly brewed coffee in a little cafe on a little hidden street nobody knows but stumbles onto by chance. we must always roll the die of life. it’s in the eyes. always in the eyes.

like silence.
yesterday i would have told you it never comes around, but silence came. and now i know true silence is that which lies in the inevitability of it being broken any moment now. suppose it’s like cutting a cake. don’t ask me why.
and when it comes around you can see it lurking like a shadow in the eyes. a vapid corner of pitch black dark. but we are burning embers in the shadows of the light.
come with me: it will be alright.
i have decided that i will be cold tonight.

but i will try to warm you up.

71. thank you for the magic

when i was little i wanted to make magic, to pull the rabbit out of the hat and make things disappear before your very eyes. i got little magic kits for bithdays and watched magic shows on tv. i was an avid learner who learnt nothing at all, because now i know the real magic
this is it.
and though it comes rarely, its arrival like a flight of a flock of swallows migrating south where warmth is surer, lustier, this is it. grass is always greener on the other side. bar this one. i’m not moving.

before you fly away, there’s always a rush of events whose sole purpose is to please me into oblivion until you are gone and the empty space forms where you ought to be. only this monday we found our song as we kissed in the middle of it, shakira singing for the crowd in which we were engulfed. that was your birthday present to me: shakira concert the day before the winter soltice.
today, it was your birthday: a small affair of our closest friends and family ties. but morning was ours. so absolutely ours.

magic is the feeling of being utterly in love. it is when you can’t help wondering qué haré si no te vuelvo a ver. it is melting in another’s arms like snow on warm day. it is falling in love and not knowing how to stop. not even wanting to stop.

and every time you go away, i wonder what will i do if i never see you return.

thank you for the magic.

64. when its not lego you’re playing with

my friendships fade the way snowangels lose their shape in the hale of falling snow.
the past is covered up by the present. the future cares little for memories. if at all.

little girls think that prefection is attainable.
i did.
i wanted it all: the prince, the fairytale, the works. i wanted the golden carriage, the friends you can trust. friends who trust you.

would you believe me if i told you i almost had it all?

no. stop. look here. open your palm, recieve a crocodile tear. that’s what X would call the by-product of my pain. 
maybe he’s right. maybe i don’t feel. maybe every tear cried for someone else is selfish. maybe i’m crying only for myself.

and now, imagine.
imagine the girl you knew from pri-school, long time ago now, shuts you out. one of your best friends for god knows how many years. you let her. you can’t be chasing her. it’s all too much. let her get away. weeks later you get mad, mad at her for not caring about your friendship, about putting her creepy male friend first. she denies. and then she relents. she tells you everything. or so you presume. she lost her virginity to him. got pregnant by chance that very first time. passed out when she found out. lost the baby soon thereafter. is still with her girlfriend now.

now tell me, what would you do?

how can you bridge the world anew when it’s not lego you’re playing with any more, but life?

63. within these four walls

home is my prison, beating heart trapped within these four walls.

whole life spent in affirmation of having seen beauty, but how? i can’t even see beyond the metal bars of this cage. trapped in an illusion of golden locks and impurity of pure white snow.

yes, this is convention.
i didn’t need anyone’s help to lace me into this corset. i didn’t make you wait to take me to the ball. no carriages will carry me in this world.

there’s always time, —-
that’s what you say, calling me by my name, every syllable grounding me further into this quicksand. truth is, there isn’t time. all there is is this yearning need to –cease. then, colours stop swirling and coloured lights hush with their bright song of desire.

i am a fire.
i burn in this empty shell. you know it well. and i flash instead of them coloured lights, where every day is christmas, where sun burns red with passion of one’s life.

kiss me now.
tomorrow it will be too late.
tomorrow we will celebrate.

17. the city of the streets paved with gold

the snow won’t stop.
hasn’t it disrupted enough? another day of lost study, another day i’ll later have to catch up on. and i just can’t stand it any more.

i long back for the lost routine.
the wake-up-at-5-and-start-getting-ready routine, the catch-the-train-and-sit-on-it-in-the-relative-warmth routine, the see-the-orangey-purpley-pink-sunrise-from-the-train routine.
something about that all is missing from my life.

and i was reading Kafka’s Metamorphosis the other day ( analysing it all the while – but that goes with the territory) and dissection of routine humans trap themselves in is something i think Kafka overindulged in, when writing the book. in fact, i could probably argue that the whole book was essentially about routine and it’s disruption bringing chaos and pain and just to reinforce the negativity of it all, he included death too.

but hey, what the use of reading about the power of disrupted routine,  if you can experience it firsthand?

wanna try?

just come to london a day before it snows and then try to get back to where you’re from. bet you can’t do it. 
but you know this.
you were there when the train kept being delayed.
you were there when the snow wouldn’t stop.

you were there to tell me there you go, that’s London for you.

and so it is. London: the city of the streets paved with gold.

2. a few words hastily typed

the moring came and went.
the snow that turned to mush yesterday froze over, ice making walking impossible, or difficult, or both. but i perservered. did my rounds, every step a third of what it normally is. slowly, willingly.

i didn’t talk to you today. not since i called yesterday did i dare think about you. now i see you sent me a message in the morning. nothing special, just a few words hastily typed. 

have a lovely day… say hi… already forgotten…

the likes of that, you know. oh yes, you know. you wrote it, sent it and then probably smiled at the thought of my reaction.

you weren’t the only one to haunt my dreams last night. i saw your mother in them too. she seemed to like me, her voice an echo of my broken thoughts.  i nearly dialled her this morning, the drowsiness still not worn off. 

i can’t remember my reasoning behind calling her, only the sound of her voice, that high-pitched semi-audible way of uttering my name when she shouts for you to come to the phone.