danny

i turn, i see her. i turn back, in shame and sadness. it is almost a tick.

there’s something going on, and i even prefer not to even think what’s it all about. we talked about it, but it was a rather sincere talk, and now sincerity obstruct the way, the way that anyway does not exist.

however, it is too late. my mind is already bewitched, possessed. it wonders and wanders every nth minute, about her, about her. i lost to my mind, she has control, absolute control, and roams through every idea, every possibility, every instant. but it is not only my mind that has been conquered. it is also my speech, which has been down and out, lost in countless unsaid words every minute i just cannot talk to her. cause i just cannot talk to her anymore. don’t ask me why, it is so.

i start to know what being a puppet might taste like. the threads pull me forth and back, thrusting me into every imaginable situation of not being myself, and every embarrasment, every cowardness, every muteness.

i just can sit, sigh, and watch the decline, the pomp and the shame of me.

you walk, you walk along a road in the cold, still winter air. you get to a corner, you turn left and continue walking. you see shops and bars, one hairdresser, many streetlights aligned and all yellow, like caution.

you watch a cross-path and follow a man in a trench coat. you know you must turn in the next corner but you don’t really know where you are. you cross another street and then she’s there. there all over the place, for a second. she disappears. you keep walking, noticing a new smell in the air, one that is not dampened by the chill and the mist. you see a bookstore and it reminds you of a book you bought there once. alone? with her, you know. you walk away and continue towards a small passage and then a tunnel and to a high street with all its buses and taxis. you cross it frantically as the cars that bewilder you. you arrive to a small corner and a small restaurant, one that she once showed to you. you keep walking.

amid the streets and corners there’s one that is familiar enough and you walk towards it. upon arrival you see a bike locked at the corner pole, a bike with familiar colours, a bike you have known and you still do, her bike. her door. her canal in front of her building on her street in her borough. her smell and her hairstyle, her hands and her smell, her kisses and her embrace and her skin and her bed and her. her silent dismissal, her leaving you alone. her lost.

you keep walking down the road, looking at the corners and the walls and the lights looking for a familiar one. you keep walking away from something, perhaps her. suddenly but softly you’re back to yourself. you realise you know a shorter path towards your destination, and you cross left, wondering down the road, in a peculiarly fast pace…