No

“I missed you,” she said. He looked down.
Then he walked away.

Advertisements

Drifting

Some days it could be nice to examine the thinking, other days it would be better to walk out of the apartment, out into the streets, and start looking at people and finding a nice park or a coffee shop. Anywhere with some energy, a place to forget yourself and float like an old wooden sailboat into the seas. I walked slowly on the sidewalk and noticed the trees on the left hand side, lined up and separating the cars from the walking path on asphalt. I felt the foot touching, rolling, then slightly kicking off from the ground. Then repeat. The jacket was open. I walked a few more steps, and then stopped.
It was like walking as a little child, in a brief moment, like the body remembered something from a few decades before, and I felt a changing mood. Like liquid on a surface, gliding from one side to the other. At the end of the street there was a park, an old park with big oak trees and a wide pond in the middle. I kept walking as the street morphed into a scenery of a desert, and then of a forest. I was dreaming. There was a scratching sound, and I opened my eyes. Lying in bed. In a dimly lit room. The morning light hiding behind the curtains. And on the night stand table, a book, a cup, and a lamp. I briefly closed my eyes and tried to imagine the street I had been walking through. Was it an old vacation, or something from a movie, or just the imagination? It was partly recognizable but then it dissolved again. And the morning light started to seep into the room on the side of the curtains. A new day. And a busy day. I stretched lying and then sat up. Then slowly leaned back into the bed. No need to rush yet. There is still time.
Half an hour later I was sitting by the table having breakfast, already showered and dressed. A glass of juice, and a toast.

Evening Walk

He walked down to the river, and felt a different kind of exhaustion than before. But he knew it would be better, soon. The trees, and the water, always had a the calming effect of nature, and of peace.
There had been too many emotions for a while. But it would soon change. He was searching back to the normal habits, and a different kind of stability in the habits.
The sound of the river suddenly became more clear. And then, the slight breeze, and the green color on the leaves. He slowed down his step. And then it started to feel more like before. It connected him to the many walks along the same paths in the last few years. It was a feeling of home.
It would soon be dark, and not so many people were walking there yet. Maybe they would come later, it was often hard to tell. But he moved slightly closer to the water as he walked, and then, he felt the soft grass under his shoes. New memories started to float towards him. And he knew that it would balance the mood.

Two Little Birds

Two little birds were flying under the sun, and singing little tunes to each other.
It could have been any day, but this day was special as they had been flying together for two years now, and now the first day of spring had come. They were gliding peacefully through the air, flapping briefly with the wings, and then gliding again in soft arches over the skies.

Cup of Tea

The cup of tea was standing in front of him. Light fumes were dancing upwards. He looked more closely and studied the movements of the fumes. Slowly upwards, then faster, and gradually fading into nothingness.
He could sometimes look at the cup for many minutes, letting the thoughts follow the movements. Letting them be the movements, to break the patterns and discover new areas to explore. And there was the anticipation. That a few minutes later, the first taste would fill more of the senses and stimulate more new thoughts, and inspire new dreams for the future.

New Soil

He was walking along the river, again. But it was going in circles. The new ideas were pressing, and the inputs from other things, real things, public things, were sinking into him, and changing something. One more little unit, one more element into a bigger process, a process that always seemed to know its own course, in broader strokes. Over time.
It was turning into a solid first period, a period that had started on a little wall in the sunshine, in a beautiful corner of a beautiful little town, two years before. There was little stopping, only focusing at the moment, and keep moving. It had made the months interesting, as the growth of something new was happening, steadily. At some point there would be the questions of choices again, but not yet. A few more weeks. Some more efforts and early drafts and paragraphs, of something new. And digesting meetings of new people, conversations, and readings. The ebb and flow of a growing period. He looked down at the path before him, and at the trees along the river. Another step, and then another one. There had perhaps never been anything in life like this, before. Once the soil was more suitable, life had started to change.

Evening Walk

It was always the same place, on the evening walk, when the same thoughts came back to him. The same reflections, the same areas of life to be evaluated, or topics to ponder about. Sometimes it could be the bigger issues in life, or sometimes the smaller everyday questions of spending your time on the right things, for yourself and for others, and for the future. Like little stations along the path, to build and expand on something he had thought the day before, and in a long string of days and walks, creating a longer and coherent reflection and learning about something in life, that might be useful one day. And then, there was always the sound and seeing the river. It softened the brain, and released the patterns of thinking, making them more fluid.
This afternoon was a more quiet one. A feeling of being content, and of some new wheels being set into motion. There seemed to be a balance over time, over the months or over the years, between the busy life and the slow life. He should have known by now that it always would sort itself out, but it was probably a part of the process. That new things rarely emerged without a tiny sense of desperation or despair. Maybe it was a necessary trigger, from mother nature. But the recognition was usually the same. He’d been here hundreds of times before. And it always tipped over, into something new. Over and over. A million times.

Raindrops

She was looking out of the window. Rain drops. The sound made an echo deep within her, like water falling into a stone cellar and splashing against the floor. She was sick of this.
It used to be a nice sound, the drops against the window, but not this afternoon. It felt like a prison.

A New Book

Back along the river, at the last day of the week, his mind felt empty again. Strangely enough, as so much had happened just in a few days, and he was learning and working on some new things that would probably be very useful later that summer. But the emotions were a bit blocked, in a good way. So he walked quickly, got back home, made a warm cup of tea, and sat down in his favorite chair with a new book. It was by a new author he had discovered by coincidence in the book store a few days ago, as he was walking out of the shop but a cover suddenly caught his attention, and he walked over to the book shelf to have a closer look.
And as he opened up a random page, the sentences quickly drew him in, and the emotion behind them felt firm and balanced, and made him want to read more. The woman at the counter had smiled and told him: “That is a really good book. A new author.”
He said: “Thank you,” and when he got home he put the book on the small reading table next to his chair in the corner, next to the window and the book shelves in the living room.
He started reading and was drawn into the story again, just like the first time. A story of two old men meeting at the end of their lives in a sunny square, and their perspectives were contrasting between a practical type and a more introverted type, with a little hint of the special friendship and relationship which that created. It was by a new author, but it felt like he had written some books before, there was something in the tone that was different from most first time books. And he kept reading for a while, before taking the first little sip of tea.