When the chrysalis splits, when the warmth and familiarity and routine comfort give way suddenly, unexpectedly, and something brand new and yet faintly familiar begins (again) like a slow dawning that floods your torpid being with the blood of gods, well, sometimes it only takes a few lucid minutes—the sun streaming in unbidden on your worried mind between swatches of dark clouds, the bracing cold piercing your exiled body like a billion icy needles on a moonlit walk to the metro station—to realize that the insular place you were in was a little thing called hell, and heaven is simply that feeling of freedom you'd somehow managed to forget while wrapping the tawdry trappings again and again like a tourniquet around your crude form until they almost felt like folded wings... ...almost.
2 comments:
So, your saying it was cold on the way to the metro the other morning?
Yep.
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