I’m dreaming of distant horizons. To climb snow-capped mountains and descend upon dales of lustrous green. To walk down orchards, and stand on the shore, watching the siege of the sea upon the breakers.

I want to saunter down city streets, and kill time in a quaint cafe by the plaza. To pay tribute to churches and cathedrals of old, and then pass through sweet-smelling gardens. To have a picnic in the park, then lie down on the grass and watch the day slowly die.

What awaits for me in the Land across the Sea?

I stood on the shore, my ankles bound and caressed by warm waters, the rhythmic sighs bearing a lover’s promise. But my eyes beheld only the setting sun as it passed over the horizon, bathing the sealine in bloody tones. And then at the last a final defiant flare, the visual echoes of a dying day with no one to bear witness but the gulls, their cry a lamentation for the end of the world.

I want to be more honest about myself, but I guess I’m a coward at heart.

Today was… strange. Words fail me, because I have nothing can that adequately describe what happened. And so it is I close this entry, breaking the ritual before even a month has passed. I must collect my thoughts first, before I can lend pen to parchment. The confession will have to wait.

The sunset bathes the tenements in tangerine tones. Yellow lights flicker slowly into existence, and the clay and brick become arcane foci that conjure the spirits of the past. Then dusk settles, colours darken, and night beckons. The day is already dying.

I wish I took a picture.

(Source: life-is-like-a-wineglass)

Nightfall.

I sit here within the concrete jungle, surrounded by a hundred other nocturnal creatures slaved to their polycarbonate machines, a congregation of open cells in this prison of wood, steel and plastic. The pungent aroma of brewing kahve permeates the locale, its fragrance earthy and nutty and caustic and wretched, all at once. I gag, and a flash takes me back to the day where we sat in a coffee shop, whiling the hours away.

Echoes of memory. The sharp tinkle of aluminum crockery on porcelain plates. The gentle buzzing of words darting in and out of consciousness, each and every one of us an amateur eavesdropper in a room filled with secret conversations. I breathe in, the smell of kaffe now a cloak of warmth and comfort, but only because you are here with me. Funny; I don’t even drink coffee.

Encroaching footsteps disrupt my reminiscence, forcing my return to the present. My companions return from their night stroll, and we exchange ritualistic pleasantries. Smile. Tell myself I’m okay, sometimes. There’s a long way to go yet. They say time heals all wounds. What can time do when seemingly innocuous triggers bloom these memories every now and then and on every Friday night, like hollow plays, twisting and warping into farcical tragedies that mock you in the dark?

I turn my gaze to the screen, staring at the bright glare and blinking cursor over the blank electronic canvas. I wonder: what will I do one day when I no longer have any words? For now I write, enshrining these memories within a digital altar that will keep alive my regard for you, forever.

I’m feeling wistful tonight. Let’s have coffee again sometime.