I sit in my armchair. In my flat. The window is wide open, the cool night breeze catches my nostrils every now and then. I see rectangles of lights (lives) flicker on and off over many hours. A little spy hole into other people’s lives. The artist who has no curtains, but the most wonderful arched window. He arrives home, turns on the lights, takes off his shirt and assumes his seat on another armchair, out of my view.
I listen to music. In the dark. I have a beer. A laptop. It has been so long since I last wrote anything. I mourn that fact.
Other things I mourn: the loss of ‘this’. My flat to myself. The husband arrives tomorrow morning. After 3 days (not even!), alone at home; time to sleep, to sit, to think, to look, to read, to listen to music… in the dark (with a beer). I mourn the loss of that sudden sense of self, of independence, of freedom, of space.
I mourn: the economist. I sit looking out of a window overlooking the facade of the bar where we first ‘met’ (our staircase encounter). I listen to ‘his’ soundtrack. The one he made for me when we sat together one evening with a view of London’s lights. I have been listening to ‘his’ music for months. He was the reason I chose to change my life, my city, my country, in search of freedom, of independence. Funny how things work out. Different city, same husband, no economist and less independence than before. How the hell did that happen?
I mourn: inspiration, ideas, freedom. Suffocation, but the very slow, slow kind of asphyxiation. The creative kind I’m talking about.
I mourn: too many things.