Monday, February 18, 2013


Bach: Concerto in C minor for 2 Harpischords

Morning. Chilly air. Breathe, in and out. Have to remind myself. Steps on the street. Puddles on the pavement, inside: reflections of trees stretching their limbs down to the depths of the earth. A parallel world, resembling our own but slightly different. What if I jumped inside?

Dark roast coffee. Dark, dark like my mood. My eyes burn from sleeplessness. My hand grips the mug, something solid to hold on to. Step out again to the crisp February morning. Going where? Have to remind myself. Dread fills my heart slowly, like a dark, thick and foamy beer fills a glass.

I check in with my body, how am I doing? Heartbeat irregular, fluttering every now and then. Hands cold, as always. Mild backache, always there, persistent, pestering like a whiny child.

Bach in my ears. Concerto in C minor for 2 Harpischords. Images of falling leaves dance around in my head. Falling leaves and silent lakes. Woods, distant and ethereal forests, away from this city, away from all this madness. Then a soft and calm rain. Anything to wash this heavy dread from my heart.

Baby steps, one by one. Where am I going? People walk by, no one looks into my eyes. If they did, would they see the falling leaves?

A breeze stops by, says hello. Feels good on my face. The winter sun is shining reluctantly. As if apologizing for its existence, and trying to hide itself behind feathery, translucent clouds.

Minutes pass. Body in motion, not much left to think. My mind is not here in this city anyways. I find my way on the street by instinct alone, my brain disconnected from my body, floating somewhere above me with the feathery clouds.

A gated entrance. My hand, having a will of its own, presses a doorbell. A shrill buzz. I enter.

I go up steps. Semi-darkness, my eyes trying to adjust. Panting, carrying the body of an old woman trapped inside a 31 year-old. Up to the second floor. Wooden floorboards creak. Dread, oh that awful dread, fills my heart and spills over. The smell of dark roast coffee wafting from the mug in my hand.

I go inside. Perched on his windowsill, he looks up at me.

“Hello” he says.


  1. Bravo! I think I love this one the most...

  2. Anonymous9:36 AM

    Thanks for taking us along. It is beautiful!