(Original post: Σεπτέμβριος - 01/09/2009)
There is something specific in September’s air. When it passes through some window – especially the one I bang my head on when I wake up every other day – I recognize it. It reminds me of something I don’t remember anymore; or maybe there was never something and it all started one time I thought it reminded me of something.
There is, in any case, a relief in that air, like I’m glad I survived another summer; but, also, a melancholy, as if I’ve missed another chance.
There is the anticipation for rain and snow, but most of all for clouds. The sun is beautiful and necessary, but so absolute, as well. Its direct light makes everything seem unquestionable and inflexible. There is, however, this type of clouds, not the dark but the white one, that distributes the light evenly and gives space a mysterious texture. It caresses the objects instead of imposing itself to them.
And then I wake up from the stupor of mundane reality and live in a parallel edition of it, where time unravels more unhurriedly and there is meaning and purpose in everything. And then I dream; and I breathe again.
Breathing in this air, breathing in the ozone of a rainy day, I try to understand what it reminds me of, what I have forgotten for what feels like a long time now. And I realize I have forgotten to live; or perhaps I never learnt. I feel I should know instinctively how to live, but I don’t. When I let myself, when I don’t actively try, I fall into torpor; I melt in an irresolute mental form. Living is for me like trying to stay away when you are insufferably sleepy: Maddeningly difficult and tiring and doomed to fail, in the end, no matter how much you try. But all that matters to me is there, right next to consciousness, and the longer I stay away from it, the more I get exasperated.
But the clouds bring me closer. The clouds remind me. And along with the reminder comes the sense of opportunity. One more opportunity for one more year; for one more conscious beginning.
There is the anticipation for rain and snow, but most of all for clouds. The sun is beautiful and necessary, but so absolute, as well. Its direct light makes everything seem unquestionable and inflexible. There is, however, this type of clouds, not the dark but the white one, that distributes the light evenly and gives space a mysterious texture. It caresses the objects instead of imposing itself to them.
And then I wake up from the stupor of mundane reality and live in a parallel edition of it, where time unravels more unhurriedly and there is meaning and purpose in everything. And then I dream; and I breathe again.
Breathing in this air, breathing in the ozone of a rainy day, I try to understand what it reminds me of, what I have forgotten for what feels like a long time now. And I realize I have forgotten to live; or perhaps I never learnt. I feel I should know instinctively how to live, but I don’t. When I let myself, when I don’t actively try, I fall into torpor; I melt in an irresolute mental form. Living is for me like trying to stay away when you are insufferably sleepy: Maddeningly difficult and tiring and doomed to fail, in the end, no matter how much you try. But all that matters to me is there, right next to consciousness, and the longer I stay away from it, the more I get exasperated.
But the clouds bring me closer. The clouds remind me. And along with the reminder comes the sense of opportunity. One more opportunity for one more year; for one more conscious beginning.
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