Dear friend,
The days are getting longer as the sun learns to bridge the distance between itself and the Earth. The sunlight has its way of becoming warmer and there are no sunflowers in this place. I don’t see you waking up like your usual self if I’m being honest, your hair is dry like paper and when you look into the mirror it’s like the light leaves your eyes. As if you lose yourself inside it- like you’re swapping your lives with someone on the inside at a cost of something insignificant.
The light caresses your face slightly, you close your eyes and you’re back here. The curtains are drawn. The chipped ceramic of your sink is a memory keen to someone who lived before you, in a place that is your home now.
In Spain, the people are being sung to and played from pianos, serenaded early in the morning to spare people from the loneliness which perhaps is their only companion. But the buildings here aren’t tall enough so you may never hear them sing for you. The walls are white, you try to hold back the urge to write on them. In this time of isolation, you’re going to have to face it; the good and the bad, it’ll all come to you. First, like a whisper and then it’ll be like a gurgle in your throat, then when you go to sleep, you’ll realize that it’s going to take a lot more than sleeping it off.
It’ll all be bared to you, in a room all by yourself and if it is support you seek– you’ll find it but not in the people around you but yourself. So hang in there, the serenade will find you.
Love,
ubair.