The world around me has become a single unit, with one shape, one form. Objects and subjects have become one, united. I have to separate them, push them apart, analyze them piece by piece. My empty cup of tea is a part of my room and my room is a part of my mind and my mind is a part of me. Everything has integrated and become one. As a writer, I must break these integrations, these intrusions; I must look at each piece on its own terms. A true writer never runs out of subjects or objects. A true writer always finds new things, new passions. A true writer takes the ordinary, the old, the mundane, and makes it beautiful, makes it new, makes it speak. A true writer writes.
She moved out today, with her belongings neatly packed into a red suitcase, her house key tucked securely in her purse. She looked happy; I think I saw contentment in her eyes for the first time in two years. Mom and Dad helped her unpack in the tiny basement room that she rented in a lovely little town house. The neighborhood is nice and her neighbors seem friendly. The guy next to her is young and apparently good with tools. Her landlord said if she needs help fixing things, she can ask this fellow.
Some of her things are still here. There are books she has to pack and the rest of her makeup utensils and her green skirt and winter coats. I am trying to remember them so I can think about them when I miss her or when I feel lonely.
She is probably drinking coffee right now; black coffee in a mug, checking her email, writing a short piece on her blog. She will turn off all the lights because she enjoys the darkness; the night makes her happy. I am happy thinking of her in her own place, waking up to her own sun, sleeping with her own moon.
I will miss her candles, her obsession with tea and coffee, her love of the rain.
Good night sis.
The elevator opens and I get off. The lobby is full of little kids who go to elementary school. Their bus comes at 8:10. It is 8 and I am getting agitated. The world of children is too complicated, too stressful. I stand aside while they scream and yell and run. They wear cute outfits that their mothers happily buy for them. Pink and flowers for the girls, blue and animals for the boys. One mother is pregnant; her three other kids are running around in circles and I get dizzy watching them. One of them, the little one, is an adorable little girl in braids. She comes close to me, smiles and I smile at her. Then I don’t know what to say so I ask for her name. She doesn’t answer because she is too little to speak. I can’t think of anything else to say so I get up and leave.
The two men on the bus were speaking pure, flawless French. I stopped reading the words in my book and listened to them talk. It was sexy. French is just sexy. They spoke and I didn’t understand a thing. So I tuned them out and went back to my book.
Then the two men began to laugh in French and I was curious again.
The French men got off the bus two stops before the Vienna metro station and I went back to reading. I had no interest to listen to anyone else’s conversation. The blond in front of me was talking too much and the guy next to her was nodding. The rest of the bus was quiet.
I missed the French men.