There is a silence in my eyes. I gaze with cold wonder at the world around me. Usually I smile. Not lately. Too many questions darting around my mind while a quiet discontent sleeplessly turns side to side at the bottom of my being. As my routine sets in, a pleasant attention to the little things becomes noticeable. The perfectly straight line drawn by a glistening drop of water as it wanders downward beneath the towel rack. The different cloud constellations in the same sky, above the same lake, seen from the same tram, every early morning. The transparent reflection of my ageing face in the train window. The glitter on a single fingernail in a choir of painted nails on the little hand of the corner store cashier. I suppose I no longer feel the burning sensation of displacement in my home town. Seven years after having left it turned into a soft srangeness, like knowing you’re in the wrong relationship but finding no rhymre or reason as to what it is exactly that makes you feel this way. The crackle of my cigarette echoes in my ears. I miss the burning in the buring in the back of my throat when I smoke those reds. But with every passing day the excuses evaporate. You’re 25 now. You wheeze on the treadmill. Do you really need it just to get through the day?
But I want it. This perfect unsatisfying pleasure. When you live your life in self-restraing, even the smallest act of rebellion feels like a victory.