When travelling to London and back I made a few notes, which are mainly my feelings on the paper - as unpolished as they are in my mind. I decided I want to keep them, unlike many more that I later lost, deleted or simply never wrote down.
The first time was like in a dream, so intense that I missed the plane and had to stay overnight in the airport, napping on the uncomfortable benches.
The second time was well-prepared, with polished admiration and smoothly increasing frequency of heartbeats along with the landing airplane. Only the insane blooming of the city with the colourful wings on the both side of the river could match the extent of the skyrocketing emotional fireworks in my whole human being, as if I was a child at my first Christmas.
This time it was different, as if both the city and me grew up and needed to find the dolce vita in details. I sank into the deeper layers of the reality in search of clear molecular emotions. The ones I am taking with me like flashcards pinned on memory.
The comfort
I am still half asleep and feel slightly weightless in the morning, a bit in the air, wrapped in the soft and calmingly tender blanket. The latter seems to demonstrate the names of all the cities I would want to visit in an interesting calligraphic font. The poster of Woody Allen’s Manhattan musical is right above my head: I did not know Meryl Streep and Diane Keaton cast in that one, accompanied by Gershwin's music. I am alone in the bedroom, yet I can distinctly feel his warmth next to me and his odour on the pillow. I can hear him typing something next door, in the living-room and drinking English breakfast tea. Without milk.
It is going to rain in London today...
