I have been a tad cheeky lately. I seem to wake up earlier than usual so I come downstairs, make my first coffee and bring it back to bed. With the heating purring in the background, covered in cats and with my journal on my lap, I savour those first moments just for me.
This morning felt different, though.
I was staring at the kettle. Does the water know that I am here waiting?
I am here waiting.
I am here.
Waiting.
I am waiting. Even on my journal, this morning, those same words: I am waiting.
I find myself in a large dusty square. Not just large: very large. Almost Guareschi's Brescello through a wide-angle. It's hot. Cicadas are singing in the background. Not a tree, not a lamp post, not a soul. I am right in the centre. I turn around and I don't know where to go, nor if I have to go anywhere. I have no direction. Around this large square, large old buildings, windows shut, wooden shutters down.
I am alone.
I am waiting.
The sun is high and hot. The air is hot. I can't shrug it off. My skin prickles where the bubbles of sweat seem to pop when they reach the right temperature. The soles of my shoes - I am wearing child-like shoes, black, worn out - feel as though they're sinking into the heat of the square, the warmth radiating from the baked earth beneath me.
Dust of tuff and bricks everywhere, as a thin powder. covering the square, the buildings, swirling in tiny clouds with each step, sticking to the damp skin of my neck and hands.
I can taste the vanilla-like dust in the back of my throat, its dry grit catching on my tongue as I breathe it in.
The cicadas are relentless, fighting with my personal hissing for first prize; an endless buzz that fills the emptiness. And yet, the silence beneath it feels thicker, as though it's pressing in from the edges. As words that are trying to rush in, to tell me something, but it's just a concoction of fricatives and affricates and I make no sense of them. My footsteps sound muffled on the ground as if the dust itself absorbs the noise. The air and I are both waiting for something.
There's a faint watery metallic tang in the air, a lack of zinc, almost like the smell of rain on dry ground, drops bouncing, though the sky is an unbroken expanse of light blue.
Sweat gathers at the back of my neck, convening on my collarbones and then trickling slowly between my breasts. The dust feels cold against my fingers when I touch it, as though the earth underneath still remembers a busier time before this day.
I am waiting.
Empty streets depart. I don't know which one to take: they look all the same from where I stand and not one catches my attention.
No, I am lying. I am looking at one, to my right. I don't see anything different but I know that I don't want to go there.
Do the roads know that I am here waiting?
I feel better.
I am still waiting.
Something will happen.
For now, my kettle stops, with his mixture of popping, shaking, "I am here, I've done my job"- shrugging it off attitude.
My feet are beautiful but now cold. Coffee it is.
earnestly, yours.
mx
If this resonates with you, feel free to share it with a friend!
#EarnestlyYours #CreativeJourney #WritingLife #Storytelling #ReflectiveWriting #WritersOfInstagram #JourneysOfTheMind #AdventurousSpirit #MappingTheSoul #TravelThroughWords #CreativeExplorer #Introspection #ReflectionInAction #LivingWithPurpose #WriteYourStory #InspirationEverywhere #FollowYourDaimon #CreateYourLife #IntentionalLiving #Jung #Alchemy #Shamanism #Paleophenomenology #Guareschi #DonCamillo #Brescello #waiting #silence #pause
コメント