Momentum - Χαρά Τριανταφυλλίδου

My eyelids decided to pause their idleness early in the morning. Or I thought so. The clock on the wall was stuck at 12 a.m, the moment of bliss for every nyctophiliac. I let my fingers run through the sheets, searching for the cold screen that would finally wake me from my lethargy. It wasn’t early in the morning. 

One more productive day would begin at 2.30 p.m, which felt like 9 a.m, and looked like 6 a.m, without a single ray of sunlight entering the apartment to dilute the ennui. Everything around me prepared me for one very joyful and energetic day. A stack of papers on my desk reminded me of all the interesting things I would have to work on a Sunday morning. Too bad it was afternoon already.  A stack of empty glasses reminded me of all the interesting things I had done last night. Too bad it wasn’t last night. Too bad it wasn’t with you. 

My memories were not much blurrier than the view I had from my balcony. Bits of lust and alcohol flowing through my veins lured me to my state of joy illusion. But joy reality was when you were the substance in my veins. Too bad this time it wasn’t you. 

Everlasting silence is surely something that displeases me. Strolling through my space, I let my mind form the melody I wanted to hear and let it blast through my apartment, finally diluting the tedious atmosphere. Sundays were supposed to be the day of realization and regrets for what had happened or not. Music would heal the regret, until Monday would begin and the same mistakes would be repeated over and over in the vicious cycle of love and hate for you. 

Numbness, though, this displeases me more than anything. I would rather let a blade inside of me, than all of my emotions outside of me. Accustomed to the sweet noise of deep bass and guitar distortions, I opened the balcony door and stepped outside again. A drop greeted me and landed on my nose. Transparent dots decorated the metal table and I touched them softly, twirling them around, drawing with my fantasy, just like I used to draw red marks on your back. 

Thunders echoed pleasantly, following a bright lightning that broke my sky in two. I looked up and watched the rain fall from the grey fuss above to rush back in again. I wore my shoes, grabbed my keys and ran like my life depended upon every second I would miss. I tiptoed to the backyard and let my feet sink in the fresh soil. I felt the raindrops through my hair, which was twisted by the wind. I let my clothes stick on the skin, I rose my hands to the sky and sealed my eyes against the world. The water run down my neck, it froze beneath my shirt as the breeze rushed through my chest. My legs were stuck, they refused to go, I refused to let go, as I was begging for cleansing.

Unlike the pouring sky above, I was shining bright. See, that’s the effect of a thunderstorm. It’s so short, but it can change you. It can wet your clothes, it can make your windows dirty, it can mess up your fresh paint, it can overflow your flower pots. Just like your life. It’s so short, compared to the life of the universe, but it can crash and get crashed in seconds. It can change and you can be changed. It can be destroyed.

Tracing down the scar on my breast, I embraced the sweet destruction. But you weren’t there to embrace me.