Friday, January 24, 2014
I am experiencing that late-January chill and sublimity. There is a hush in the rooms; a tickle in the soles of my feet at night, a rustle in the air; I love it. Because of my jobs, my reading is slower, books I could finish in 3-4 days now take 2 weeks! So the red tick-marks against the titles in my 2014 reading list is disappointingly few. Hunger Angel by Muller is the first book on my list that I crossed off last week; I'll post a review on Goodreads later.
These days I am listening more and more classical and contemporary concert pieces and poetry readings; violin concertos are the best. Today I melted into Mozart, Sibelius and Paganini.
I should be writing more, but everything is so slow, the laziness is almost seductive. It is as if I had taken a draught of that mythical mead that has put me on a drowsy euphoria. Even at noon, I feel like I am gliding gently through the mellow, fluffy clouds. I speak to myself more often and it is becoming a little obvious. I think I am becoming transparent, leaves flutter through me, my veins are turning into shimmering dust, my hair melting into the sky.