I decided to go to hibernation as December happened.
My world was pale. All the colors washed away to a distant desert of bliss.
I woke up to the sound of fog.
The sun was still sleeping in some brothel.
Yellow dull street lights stared at me from the open window and I was dreaming wide awake caressed by an arousing chilly wind, or just hallucination of the night.
She wandered slowly in her room following the harmony in Cohen’s voice. She pretended as if the man was singing for her. Cohen sang it for Nancy, and she was being Nancy in a mirage of fabricated reality. Was her life just mockery of love? She was not sure. She believed she was a semi-precious stone. She believed she was Nancy. She closed her eyes and stepped slowly on the cold floor, barefoot, and she wore an old navy blue sweater and grey shorts. Cold, cold it was. Winter was creeping up her shoulder and her bare fair legs. Now Cohen started singing another song about this strange intriguing woman named Suzanne. She hated Suzanne. Because she couldn't become her. Because she didn’t have feathers to wear and love to give. She instead put on her black stockings and slept in her Nancy dreams.
(Later she grew to not envy Suzanne anymore when she saw her as she is - the seductress of the old kind, the spinner of coins.)
I asked myself: “How are you my love?”
And the spiral path of useless thoughts began in my head.
I’m okay. Or, may be not. Wait, I am NOT okay.
I’m messed up and miserable.
I’m sad and lonely.
I’m in love and I’m frustrated.
I loved a phantom. I made out with a teddy boy.
Ignore me. I am so damn reality-phobic.
And I am not sad.
I am too lazy to be sad.
I’m an apathetic person with a dirty grey heart and I’m in pathetically in love with the mere idea of love.
What is love? = Lunacy Obduced by Verbal Erraticism. If it makes sense that is (even the words sound so pseudo and obscure. I doubt they are even real words. But then again, language is always inadequate for human expression).
But love does not make sense anyway.
She reclined on her chaotic bed. He was half a country away. There was a phone call. She was talking to him; she was falling for him as if she hasn’t already fallen. She stretched her legs wide apart. Something was wet in there. And her heart was wet too. But he was half a country away, a long long telephone cord away. She reclined on the bed of metaphysical sex. She put down the phone. She slept in the ragged blue sweater and the black stockings. Her legs no more wide apart, rather resting alongside. Grey shorts laid aside. Winter’s night put a blanket of numbness over her.
Winter is here again. The time for solitude, time for bittersweet pain; twinges in the heart.
Time for my conjured snow flakes to fall. Time for nights of frozen stars.
I am back to my self again.