The light bulb in the bedroom is blinking – a warning of dark days to come. The next day, it stopped working completely. Dark days.
I can hear the water hissing and boiling in the kitchen. Its foam rapidly escapes from the mouth of the pot. A wet mess.
Toys are strewn across the living room. What once was quiet and plain and solitary became a sea of colors and splashes and sounds. Predictions and surprises.
There are now a lack of beautiful words to write. No more feelings to explore. All is a rubber, stretching in all directions – numb, artificial, uncaring. Nowadays, the only justice is a glass of red wine, a slice of silence in the early morning, leftover food from last night’s cooking. A photo of the moon against a backdrop of old memories, hanging on the same sky on the other side of the world, of before and after.
Sometimes justice is leaving the house a mess. Sometimes justice is switching on the lamp from the storage so we can find things, do things. Sometimes justice is just getting up, taking water, taking out the plants and finally paying attention to their needs. Sometimes justice is lifting the pen even if to lie down is what the limbs long to do. Sometimes justice is smelling the unfinished book or putting on your boots. Finding ways to start, to accept, to push a little more than yesterday.