Looking at old photographs on the bathroom floor,the winter biting my ankle,cold to my bone.
The photographs form inverted images on my eyes that whirl to a psychedelic effect and the light falling on my eyes is not the same anymore.
It's us walking down a street,holding hands,fairy lights strung on the sides long after festivities have died..it's dark and pretty.So surreal,so empty.We sat in a cozy cafe where service was slow and time was never tired of being timeless,we din't want to go home that night..it was frozen warmth,a guarantee growing up never assured us of.
The air has a nip of November now,as we weave through potted plants on the pavement..winter is sunsets before you anticipate them,winter is time growing old,winter is letting go of the warmth of summer's palm.Maybe that's why I was never too keen about this season in the first place.Only the memory of summer gets me moving.
We blew bubbles out the sides of the auto,the wind blew them back at out faces.Teenage troubles din't matter on days like this,they din't even exist.It din't matter how screwed up it was to see a a beggar tapping on a Rolls Royce window in front of me..that same afternoon.
Sort of like when you sit on a terrace tank and look down on a world of miniatures and you could sit there all day watching clouds and airplanes and advertisement hoardings in the distance,and zone out because tomorrow wouldn't exist if you sat there long enough.
The gasoline rainbow sheen of the bubble popping on my face takes me to yet another place,
A baby pink bath tub,my four year old feet wouldn't reach the end and I wish I wouldn't be so small,
Now I can only sit in it with my feet huddled up beneath my chin,
it's sort of terrible how children are unaware that growing up doesn't always entail certainty,
but only more doubt.
