strangers

lights turning red and yellow and green. the anticipation pervading the air on both sides of the road. the heavy paper bag sinking continuously to the ground the strings biting into the creases between the fingers it hurts. green. Hi. pink earphones. the world stopped for that tiny fraction of a millisecond and then everything crashes back again. fingers that hurt so much it felt like it was already bleeding. everything started to move behind and people walked by. excuse me. sorry. politeness that has lost its meaning that has evolved into a reflex something to say to not offend, to get out of trouble. that initial delicate feeling being washed away by the stream of people, being brushed off by shoulders and that stain of awkwardness probably now ten yards away. twenty. thirty. and then it doesnt matter anymore, does it? a face turns around and it's a face from the past. a reminder of naivety of adrenaline rushes of an era of many first things.

outside, a wind like a brush strokes gently along the street. someone pulls their coat closer. blow into your hands and start rubbing. poof a genie appears but fades away along with the wind that sends chills trickling down the spine and there's a little shiver. inside, an exchange of well-beings, and laughs that dont sound convincing at all. little talks about ambitions that never were, retracing past incidents and skimming upon the timeline when it was all too close to that point, concerns about what's going to happen next, the true reason of being a pescetarian and learning the word itself, christmas plans that reveal current relationships, an abrupt pause once in a while that is all too uncomfortable and an instantaneous reflex of looking at the phone or the action or feeding oneself cautiously. open your mouth as wide as possible it's a game of not touching the edges and then wipe off that imaginary stain on the corner of your mouth with the paper napkin. wow, this is really good. now, the next question.

there is something calming here in the underground. under-ground. tames the uneasiness and snaps you out of that what-if moment. there is a queer aftertaste inside. the laughs the smiles the casual talk and the hug among the crowd which almost felt like it would only have happened in a movie. the one that deserves a spotlight on a stage in a play. the one that should have had happened years ago. it is a funny feeling something that is good but tastes of irony and maybe in it a slight pinch of sadness and regret. like how Gordon puts it, a pinch of salt just to taste, nothing more, brings out the flavor in it. in what? and just before the question was answered, the smell of anticipation once again pervades the air and like an invisible force pulls the train into the station. 

spring

hints of green weighing the branches down, waving quietly outside the window. grass spotted with little white flowers, like scattered snow that never melts away, that will last till autumn comes. and the sun hangs high above caressing everything gently, like a mother's hug, like that comfort pat on the shoulder. the air is crisp and fresh and smell like spring - if it had a smell - but winter has not gone for long yet, not in this country where it leaves a trail of itself until it returns again, as if it had been pushed out of its rightful place, as if it resented the idea of changing seasons, as if it was overly possessive. or spring could be a facade, a mask, a play, an act, an illusion something not real, something that is nothing but false pretense, something to cover up that coldness, something that create hope and joy so to break them down again, something that makes people forget about their mistakes so that they'd do it again, something. really. it never really changes, only deliberately coalesces with our lives, and slowly we get used to it until we never know it is there anymore, until it becomes a habit, until it becomes who we are, until it makes us who we are. it's not really spring is it? there are times when the mask is not tight enough and it slips off a bit and the temperature drops and the shrilling wind carries the cold past and hit us in our faces; or like the sharp edges and corner of the glass table that we forget about until we kick it again; the impact hard enough to remind that winter is still here and it never really leaves.

that is, unless you fly back home.