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| Pic: Me |
My Internet connection is down. Nick is strumming through the tiny speakers in the laptop. I have a strong and strange urge to be melancholy. Feels like one of those days when everything is too right. Being melancholy gives me a room with walls that no one can see through. Yet that room has large bay windows. White translucent curtains billow in the pale wind that blows across the pine forests. The sun is lost in transit. Time stops, and the raindrops plough into my mind, kicking up a soggy dust storm.
People here, some there, like zombies in a trance. Walking around, smiling, frowning, hats in hand. I sit naked, look into the distance, and see nothing but the day unfolding in front of my eyes like an old sepia-tinted movie. I have been here before. Yet, the pale wind makes me shiver, like an old dog, cringing in cold rain.
Incessant moments in a frenzy, dancing around on the hours, stringing them together to make days that stretch across into a lifetime, I can almost strum on these strings. Can I hear a voice? Or is it just the pale wind across the pines. Or is it just a dead Nick. Somehow, I don’t care. I have been here before. With my dead-wood wind chime.
