27 January. It’s Thursday.

January 27, 2011

How can you possibly choose between standing on the top of a mountain, overlooking a million peaks, or driving through absolute nothingness – and the buzzing life in a big city, full of art, ideas, buses cruising the streets, bars, restaurants, parks, books, passing faces, existences barely touching each other.


I love looking out of the window, while on the bus, watching other buses pas, each one its own little universe.

And I eat, standing in the kitchen, wearing my black dress, and I think about life. My life. Life in general and life specifically. And I can’t stop wondering.
I try to think about what brought me here. I try to imagine what else life has to offer me. What will come next. And when. But it’s useless. I will be surprised in any case.

And I think about those tango lessons and I ask myself whose voices I am hearing through the open windows, down on the street, on this hot Thursday night, from the 10th floor.

Overlooking. From a safe distance. The city.

I wonder what stories the other girls would have to tell, those who stayed in this room before, slept in the notsocomfortable bed, took the same bus, or another, or none, loved it, hated it, moved on, stayed.

I wonder why the traffic never stops. What are people doing at this time of the day? Its night already.

I wonder where Nora’s cat was while it wasn’t at home.

I wonder who will find me and I wonder when I will have memorised all those irregular and not so irregular verbs.

I wonder who chose the tiles in this apartment.

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