I should be counting days. I should be impatient for December to come, and for him to arrive with his heavy black suitcase and his strange hidden smile. I should be thinking of the arrangements for him to stay, for the places to go. I should be thinking not to be scared anymore, to go ahead and walk with him all around the city. I should be happy to celebrate one more year in his company, his hand playing my guitar, his shiny hair standing on ends. However, November moves along like a lazy centipede, and there is nothing to look forward to. Nothing new this Christmas. I have company here, but I doubt we can share the festivities together.
How has my life changed these months? I can’t really tell… I feel as if the last two Decembers never happened. I feel as if my mind were full of fake memories. Did those years really elapse? Where did the things in my bedroom come from?
Thinking that my life’s metamorphosis has only begun puzzles me too much. I wish I could just focus on the spot where my feet are lying. The landscape keeps changing, there is no use in trying to reach the mountains I once stood on, the mountains I might never climb but seem to be heading to.
