November Blues

There are periods in life that are just weird, harsh, different. Periods in life that we remember for ever. In a way, those are probably the best; the ones that prevail, the ones we talk about afterwards repeating ourselves unceasingly; the ones from which memories are made of, sometimes short stories and sometimes even novels.

No one remembers the little things, the bread shop in the corner, the plants you watered every day, routine, comfort, stability. No one stops to talk about the beauty of coming home, to the same friend, to the same man, to the same woman; of coming back to the same place, to the same music, to the same dinner. Of trusting, of knowing that if nothing explodes in your face, tomorrow will be pretty much like today: beautiful. Boring.

Today, I wish for that neutral colour that no one knows how to call; a mix between beige, grey and dirty white. I wish for walks around the same block turning at the same corners and waving at the same people.

I long for a month of routine and caring for my ferns; for a year that will probably not make it to any printed page or fantastic late bar story. I want the dull white walls that live no room for candid memories. I want repetitive weekends by your side, I want the common people fights and our burnt morning coffee.    

Will writing in your language heal this longing, alleviate my confusion? Will it always be for you? Will it make it better? Will, I feel you closer? A complete disaster. This is me, writing to let go, to talk, to counteract this exhaustion; this end of the week weight, this extra time which I do not know whom to give to.

I am tired of missing you. What more can I do distract myself from what I wish to be doing; somewhere else, in bed, resting. Being held for a whole hour. There are things in life that do not come twice, we all know it. And here I am, in this house that is not mine, wanting to get back into bed and sleep until the end of November.

My November Blues.

Is it you or is it just this end-of-the-year-harsh-month? Is it us or is it this, my life, my never-ending desires.

I’ve wanted so much, I’ve gotten so much. But today, all I wish for is that neutral colour that no one knows how to call; a mix between clinging to your naked back and burnt morning coffee while writing.

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