Beethoven

I can almost see you sitting on the piano seat by a window. The curtains are dancing gracefully to the sway of the morning breeze, and you are there, looking out.

What could you be thinking? You must be thinking of flowers. I am thinking of flowers too.

I feel a strange kind of joy in my heart. It's the joy of finding you alive and seeing you happy. It doesn't matter that I can't hold you or see you.

You do not belong to me. You belong to the flowers and to the sun and to the sky. You belong to the earth and to the force that makes it grow and wither. You belong to the sea and to the tempests that ravage it. You belong to the calm that silences it. You belong to the stars and to the moon and to the night.

So let us both think of flowers and of all the things that are made alive. Go play Beethoven's Ninth Symphony on that piano and be reminded of the joy that our sufferings sometimes make us forget.

Yes. I don't think I would mind very much if I just stand looking at you like this, from afar, without seeing your face. Are you smiling or crying? It is enough that I can see what you are looking at, and that what we are looking at is beautiful.

The flowers are especially lovely today.

Fake Plastic Trees

I've started smoking again.
And listening to sad songs.
And crying.

Please go away,
whatever this is.
This storm, this fatigue.

Sometimes when people ask me if I'm okay just for courtesy, I'm tempted to jump into their arms and cry. I feel like I'm hanging on to something that is constantly trying to shake me off. And I am tired of holding on. Why am I still holding on?