I lost my only file with the typically naive poetry, which I
used to write in my teens. Nothing significant, just another part of childish me
is gone. Most probably, it got deleted with other useless items that, I had
supposed, were overcrowding my laptop. It is beyond retrieve.
I need my euphoria back.
We are used to crumbling the bricks of past to be able to
move forward. I never do this on purpose, but it miraculously happens to me
quite often. As a consequence, only academic files about business and
management live on my hard disk now. They are smartly structured into family-folders, which never get messed up, as before. They are ruled by hierarchy and perfect order.
Very similar to my consciousness.
I am crystal clear about what I am doing and for whom: it helps me fight the pressure out of my emotional system and survive. The clock is ticking, the progress is being made. There is an endless race between me and time, because I have no patience and because, among other things, I lost the ability to enjoy the everyday trifles. Those used to be the essence of my routine, as if drinking a very precious wine in the smallest possible sips so that one can admire the bouquet as long as possible. Sophisticated? Not really.
The days flow through me, as if they are made of a pure liquid and I am a ghost from the indefinite future.
But every morning I
am getting on the yellow train, which takes me from Schiedam Centrum to Den
Haag through the milky vapor floating on sleepy fields. It so happens that while I am pressing my cheek against the frozen window glass, the perfect circle of the glim emerges from the horizon, and I catch myself smiling. Slightly, not as a madman, but very much like a naive teen writing poetry at nights. A teen, that learnt a bit of Dutch and can understand some French, but, what is more important, still possesses the secret of translating enormously rich feelings' palette into simple words or melody.
.
