I just woke up.
It’s kinda late for waking.
So, what did I miss?
The coffee machine is already doing its thing in the kitchen, but maybe I should just have some tea.
I mean: It IS noon.
And it’s kinda late for waking.
I gotta start packing up my joint: I’m leaving in a week. It’s not a move to another city or continent (not yet, at least) — just an excuse to go research all the possible next stops, and to revisit my beloved hearts. And I should come bearing gifts. Or food, most likely.
Someone in the building is cooking breakfast. I can smell it through the open doors of my balcony. Someone is cooking breakfast… Um, wait. It’s lunch time. And it smells like yellow curry, pepper and paprika. Slowly, it’s starting to feel so wonderful — to be so awake.
If it were my brother though, he would be cooking breakfast, right around this time. I mean: It’s noon, and it’s kinda late for waking. But at night, he prefers to dream with his eyelids open: an artsy insomniac like me. For him, it is always wonderful to be awake; and whatever the rest of the world is sleeping through — he takes down onto his canvas:
“You gotta see this nonsense, Ra!” he calls me past midnight, less than twelve hours away from noon.
I come over, while bearing food, most likely; and I take a look.
I rarely tell him what I see splattered underneath the paint. But it is always so wonderful — and somehow very awake.
By the time he finally takes a nap at sunrise, the apartment smells like old acrylic paints. And a little bit like magic. I adjust the mountain of his blankets, brush his forehead, and I slip out.
And in the morning… Um, sorry. In the afternoon, he walks across the drying canvas barefoot and starts making breakfast in the kitchen. Yes, breakfast! The smell of eggs and chocolate mixes into the air, and by the time I return bearing coffee, it feels so wonderful — for both of us — to be so awake. And it smells a little bit like magic.
He is coming home tomorrow.
I — am leaving in a week.
So, I gotta start packing up my joint.
It’s noon. It’s kinda late for waking.
And it’s kinda late to start packing.
But it is always just the right time — for a change.
The air — in the afternoon — is already heated through, feeling like summer, not the very next season that often smells like yellow curry, ginger, and paprika. It’s not like the air at sunrise, these day.
Because at night, it has begun getting colder, and I go to sleep gratefully bundled up in a mountain of blankets, dreaming of love under my closing eyelids. Because there is always time — for my beloved hearts. And there is always time — for change.
In the fall, at nighttime, my joint starts smelling like soup or some hearty stew. I take a whole day to make a pot. The timing is specific, but it always starts with cooking the spices first: yellow curry, turmeric, or paprika. And I by time I start delivering containers of it to my beloved hearts — while feeling the peace cooked up by my generous heart — the airs smells like home. And a little bit like magic.
Someone in the building has just started thumping music. I can hear it through the open doors of my balcony.
I mean: It is noon, and it’s kinda late for waking. But it is still no excuse for this Eurobeat that lacks all magic.
The music is turned off. Someone in the building must’ve objected:
“It’s so wonderful — for all of us — to be so awake. Please don’t ruin it with your monotony.”
It’s noon. I gotta start packing up my joint.
But where do I start?
The joint is already in disarray: from being so awake so late at night, from my artsy insomnia. I’ve attempted to start packing past midnight — less than twelve hours away from noon — but in every corner I got distracted with the keepsakes from my beloved hearts.
Some gifts have been stored away, and I have nearly forgotten about them. Because they used to belong to the beloved hearts that have departed, by choice. Out of sight — out of memory. But now that the keepsakes are being retrieved — I feel awakened by their stories. And it does feel so wonderful — to be so awake.
Some stories have lost their meaning: They’ve been stored away for too long. Their magic has expired like a drawer full of old spices.
So, I shed them.
Other items may still be worth keeping. I stuff them into a box with “STORE AT BROTHER’S” label.
The pile of things — of stories — that are coming with me is the smallest one.
I’m leaving in a week, and I am taking very little with me. Because it’s not a move to another city or a continent. Not yet, at least. It’s just an excuse to go research all the possible next stops, and to revisit my beloved hearts. And to collect more stories.
It’s noon, and it IS kinda late for waking.
But it is always the right time — for change.
And it’s just about the right time for the very next season that smells like yellow curry, cinnamon and paprika.
The coffee machine has stopped doing its thing in the kitchen. The smell of coffee mixes into the hot afternoon air, and it’s starting to feel so wonderful to be so awake.
I start packing up, for change.