It is barely 7 pm, as I begin to write this. The light is glorious, late summer evening with pink, purple, and dark blue clouds moving across the plain of the sky. The yellow, and the orange, and a hint of gray. My bedroom contains nothing but a bed and one of those cheap IKEA four-legged tables that was left behind by a previous tenant. I moved into this flat not even two days ago. I have no belongings to move in, and I like it this way.
Everything is empty, dusty. Only the walls have been given a fresh coat of paint and there is still the scent of color, every time I enter through the front door into the hall. This is my second flat in a year and a half; two different continents. I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s three times bigger than my first studio, which I shared with my other half. Now I am in a huge space, alone. Life is a symphony of ironies whose meaning strikes every once in a while so that you can be reminded of priorities. Alone is not enough. I wish I had listened to him. I wish I hadn’t given up on us.
My favorite features are the glorious wooden floorboards, french windows, and long doors to every room that are so characteristic of old European buildings. My view now consists of a church, an old horse statue, and a whole neighborhood of red roofs because I am on the fourth floor and that’s as high as you get around here.
I like the emptiness. The simplicity of the white, the wood, and daylight that comes through the second the sun is up. September is coming to an end, with the days getting shorter and colder. The change of seasons is in the air. I am traditionally ill, with a sore throat and thundering headache. The silence and the solitude, both of which I have in abundance now, contribute to my current state of mind. I am somewhere at the bottom of my life, and trying to scramble the strength to crawl up. Summer was paramount in terms of where my life was headed next. The fall will show whether I did the right thing.