I loved it most when the cold wind was hitting me hard, almost violently, in the saddest moment of my day, in the loneliest city in the world and no matter how much I hated the cold, it had somehow started to make sense to love it. I even kind of grew fond of the sensation of that combination of wind and sorrow and searched for it on uneventful days. It was as if neither was enough alone, but they had to always hit me together to make sure I heard them. Perhaps they knew how much I loved the realization of a failure or a mute disconnect with someone; I loved the clueless behind the default smile and difficult laughter. This was life to me – seeing the pretentious, deeply hidden in the nowhere, left-over of a beauty. I stared at people who stared at their phones, I stared at my phone – too much to see, too little to need; by the time I looked up, another sunset had gone, another day was forgotten without a story to tell, without anyone to tell a story to.
But beauty was too familiar and forced to seize. I was holding onto it tightly without giving it time to grow out of beauty. And by beauty I meant everything imperfect, ugly and what I believed to be real, soon reminding myself how irrelevant and doubtful reality was in the first place. Objects changed with our perceptions, memory was omitted and exaggerated, our own thoughts might have been someone else’s thoughts and who knew what else, so what was I doing as a writer trying to describe feelings that changed their states while I was typing, random and dear people who left before they had said hello or goodbye, painful moments we wanted to forget rather than relive in a book?
I had reached the safety of my blanket, but I was still cold in the middle of spring, completely disregarding the pointlessness of writing and everything else that had ugly beauty in it.