Heimweh nach etwas anderes
Conversations and photographs and letters from home remind us where we are. Where we are reminds us of where we aren't. And the sterillness of time between then and now weighs unbearable. So we whisper in the dark of our rooms at night: it cannot last forever. We wait. We count the days, the hours, and the moments in betwixt what we have and what we cannot obtain.
The time comes. The days, lesser now, seem somwhow bearable. So that when we wake up in another scent-littered morning of smells we've come not to love, the countdown is less exhausting.
Die fast letzte morgen kommt. The wind echoes through that willow tree that borders the street we've walked all month. Yesterday - Saturday, Friday we hated it. We hated all the trees. Today, they seem a little less ugly; the air feels less unbreathable. Days seem less full of hours, and those it contains tick by at a steadier pace. Tomorrow is still yet before us. But yesterday is a year away.
Perhaps, wisdom reminds us, it was not so terrible as we believed it'd be.
-Rk
The time comes. The days, lesser now, seem somwhow bearable. So that when we wake up in another scent-littered morning of smells we've come not to love, the countdown is less exhausting.
Die fast letzte morgen kommt. The wind echoes through that willow tree that borders the street we've walked all month. Yesterday - Saturday, Friday we hated it. We hated all the trees. Today, they seem a little less ugly; the air feels less unbreathable. Days seem less full of hours, and those it contains tick by at a steadier pace. Tomorrow is still yet before us. But yesterday is a year away.
Perhaps, wisdom reminds us, it was not so terrible as we believed it'd be.
-Rk
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