Andrei Zahariade

Archive for August, 2011

Withdrawal – 0 – Prologue

by on Aug.31, 2011, under Viata de zi cu zi, Withdrawal

Soundtrack: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMTKb-pgxGI

Pause. Inhale. Wait. Wait. Wait. Exhale. Now go on and find happiness.

Happiness too far away. Heart skipped so many beats today. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Returns to happiness, only to find sadness in its most pure and powerful form.

And this will be “tomorrow” for him. And he hopes that she never finds his words, these words, written when the world stopped spinning for a moment for any given reason.

Oh, he’ll have tomorrows. But not like this particular one. His heart won’t skip that much, the butterflies that now seem stronger than ever will eventually die. It’ll be a different kind of tomorrow, maybe a shitty tomorrow, but a tomorrow with no doubt.

And someone asked is it a song? is it a movie? is it pure wits?

And it’s not a song, nor a movie. It’s just a story, about him and her and how shit turns upside down in the way you least expect it.

It could be a totally new chapter or only another page in the same one. He doesn’t really know, he just lives his story as the pages tell him how.

*****

And now that “tomorrow” is almost over, he sits alone in a dark train, smiles and feels happy. It’s been a long time since his heart pulsed so hard for so long, just looking at her green eyes and at the green scarf that he got her. He’s anxious, his heart is still pumping hard making his hands feverish hot. His body is shaking thoroughly and he could barely stand on his feet. It’s the same feeling he had when he first met her at the McD in the train station, or from the day when she was waiting him at the Crampton.

He took a pill and hopes to feel better, but he’s a long way from home. He closed his eyes and all he can see is her curly hair, her earrings made of string that look like painted dehydrated orange slices and her clear and powerful look coming from her green eyes that remind him of the sea seen from the beach of a village at the end of the Island.

He tried to read, but it’s impossible because he lets himself slide into that imaginary world and he sees and hears and feels everything described in the book, but he also feels her left hand holding his right.

He looks on the window. The train has reached its destination. He’s going home to sleep all the butterflies off.

[to be continued]

 

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