I wanted to write a story.
Just a short one, nothing earth-shattering, just a story about a time when I was happy, when something funny happened and I was laughing so hard I got a belly-ache.
Or maybe a story about when I fell in love for the first time, about a girl and a boy sharing a kiss.
Or was it the story when for the first time I went to visit a really big city where millions of people liv...ed and how the first thing I saw, while I was leaving the bus, was how big, wet, sloppy snowflakes were covering the ground and for some reason I remember an elderly gentleman picking up a hat that the wind had knocked of a lady`s head.
Maybe it was the story about how I learned my first song on the guitar for which I practiced so hard my fingers bled a little, but I played it with pride for my friends and didn`t miss a note.
Now I`m not sure...was it the story about the butterfly that would constantly land on my sisters nose even after we tried for minutes and minutes to shoo him away while we were walking home in a summer evening, barefoot through the grass?
Maybe it was all of those stories.
And then I couldn`t write any of them.
`Cause thinking about them made me sad and my fingers wouldn`t type any happy words anymore.
And I really didn`t wanna write a sad story, about places where all that happened, where I was happy and then when I visited them some 20 years later I was the saddest man alive, seeing them empty and lifeless.
So...no story, I`ll just keep watching through my window at the snow that is falling now, silently, in the dark...and think about a hat that a kind person picked up before the wind took it away forever...
Love you, my dear Ka-Tet...
Just a short one, nothing earth-shattering, just a story about a time when I was happy, when something funny happened and I was laughing so hard I got a belly-ache.
Or maybe a story about when I fell in love for the first time, about a girl and a boy sharing a kiss.
Or was it the story when for the first time I went to visit a really big city where millions of people liv...ed and how the first thing I saw, while I was leaving the bus, was how big, wet, sloppy snowflakes were covering the ground and for some reason I remember an elderly gentleman picking up a hat that the wind had knocked of a lady`s head.
Maybe it was the story about how I learned my first song on the guitar for which I practiced so hard my fingers bled a little, but I played it with pride for my friends and didn`t miss a note.
Now I`m not sure...was it the story about the butterfly that would constantly land on my sisters nose even after we tried for minutes and minutes to shoo him away while we were walking home in a summer evening, barefoot through the grass?
Maybe it was all of those stories.
And then I couldn`t write any of them.
`Cause thinking about them made me sad and my fingers wouldn`t type any happy words anymore.
And I really didn`t wanna write a sad story, about places where all that happened, where I was happy and then when I visited them some 20 years later I was the saddest man alive, seeing them empty and lifeless.
So...no story, I`ll just keep watching through my window at the snow that is falling now, silently, in the dark...and think about a hat that a kind person picked up before the wind took it away forever...
Love you, my dear Ka-Tet...
