Imagine the sun beaming down on you – the big warm circle traced in bright yellow pastel on the brilliant cobalt sky. Picture the way a child would draw the sea – lines and lines of blue wriggling across a pristine white piece of paper. Watch the boat appear – the big rounded triangle topped with the two smaller ones, a line running between them. You’re sailing, drifting away from your everyday troubles. It’s peaceful. Only luxury, calm and volupty. You’re leaving everything behind. It’s only when you let everything go that you’re free to do anything.
The water is lapping onto the nave. You can smell the salt in the air. The warm wind carries soft sand into your hair. The moment is golden. You pray the person you’ve lost is in a place as idyllic as this. The sway is a rocking bed; the water, a lullaby.
Here in this little piece of paradise, the regular beating is the one of the light breeze in the sails. It’s calm. There is no hammer. There is no drill. The sand nesting itself in your hair is not the ceiling of your kitchen crumbling to pieces above you. The sea is serene. The haul is voluptuous.
There might be an island in the distance, somewhere out there. It’s an adventure. It’s promising. The future is somewhere on the horizon. It’s somewhere here on the deck. The wood is shiny. It smells like honey. The cotton you’re wearing is tough and worn out at the right places. It’s comfortable. You’ve got a tan. The gulls call out.
Everything you have learned everything they have taught you, everything you have to know; it all disappears to nothing. You are alone, you can be anything. You can do anything. There are no critics, there is no social network, there are no rules, there is no gossip, there are no whispers, and there is no lurking eye. It’s just you. You and the sea. The sea and the sun. The sun and the boat. The boat and you. A colourful world on the blank canvas of your mind.
You’re a child again, playing around, making a fool of yourself and not minding it. You’re laughing and screaming out and dancing on your tiptoes. You’re eager in mind and living in a fantasy reality.
You don’t have to work. You don’t have to see people labouring away, day in, night out. You don’t have to see the crushed truth. You don’t have to feel the loneliness. Sailor’s rum. Back and forth. To and fro. Just the lull. To and fro. The sway. To and fro. The roll. To and fro. The swing.
To and fro. The phone rings and it all disappears. It just all comes back to you. Cork to the surface. It’s so hard to forget pain.
Your mum sounds sad, she misses you. She’s troubled and grieved.
I hate social networks. This house is a mess. The water is cold. I have insomnia from the noise. My electricity has been cut down to the legal minimum. My grandfather died. Justice is ironic. You don’t need to know more.
The best way is not to fight it, just go. Don't be trying all the time to fix things. What you run from only stays with you longer. When you fight something, you only make it stronger.
I’m here on my one square meter of balcony, bathing in the cold Belgian Easter Monday sun. I put down the phone and imagine the way a child would draw the sea – lines and lines of blue wriggling across pristine white piece of paper. The boat appears – a big rounded triangle topped with the two smaller ones, a line running between them. I’m sailing, drifting away from my everyday troubles. It’s peaceful. The water is lapping onto the nave. I can nearly smell the salt in the air. The warm wind carries soft sand into my hair. My drenched laundry flapping around me adds to the imaginary. Here in my mind, I have complete privacy. Here, there is no difference between what is and what could be.
The water is lapping onto the nave. You can smell the salt in the air. The warm wind carries soft sand into your hair. The moment is golden. You pray the person you’ve lost is in a place as idyllic as this. The sway is a rocking bed; the water, a lullaby.
Here in this little piece of paradise, the regular beating is the one of the light breeze in the sails. It’s calm. There is no hammer. There is no drill. The sand nesting itself in your hair is not the ceiling of your kitchen crumbling to pieces above you. The sea is serene. The haul is voluptuous.
There might be an island in the distance, somewhere out there. It’s an adventure. It’s promising. The future is somewhere on the horizon. It’s somewhere here on the deck. The wood is shiny. It smells like honey. The cotton you’re wearing is tough and worn out at the right places. It’s comfortable. You’ve got a tan. The gulls call out.
Everything you have learned everything they have taught you, everything you have to know; it all disappears to nothing. You are alone, you can be anything. You can do anything. There are no critics, there is no social network, there are no rules, there is no gossip, there are no whispers, and there is no lurking eye. It’s just you. You and the sea. The sea and the sun. The sun and the boat. The boat and you. A colourful world on the blank canvas of your mind.
You’re a child again, playing around, making a fool of yourself and not minding it. You’re laughing and screaming out and dancing on your tiptoes. You’re eager in mind and living in a fantasy reality.
You don’t have to work. You don’t have to see people labouring away, day in, night out. You don’t have to see the crushed truth. You don’t have to feel the loneliness. Sailor’s rum. Back and forth. To and fro. Just the lull. To and fro. The sway. To and fro. The roll. To and fro. The swing.
To and fro. The phone rings and it all disappears. It just all comes back to you. Cork to the surface. It’s so hard to forget pain.
Your mum sounds sad, she misses you. She’s troubled and grieved.
I hate social networks. This house is a mess. The water is cold. I have insomnia from the noise. My electricity has been cut down to the legal minimum. My grandfather died. Justice is ironic. You don’t need to know more.
The best way is not to fight it, just go. Don't be trying all the time to fix things. What you run from only stays with you longer. When you fight something, you only make it stronger.
I’m here on my one square meter of balcony, bathing in the cold Belgian Easter Monday sun. I put down the phone and imagine the way a child would draw the sea – lines and lines of blue wriggling across pristine white piece of paper. The boat appears – a big rounded triangle topped with the two smaller ones, a line running between them. I’m sailing, drifting away from my everyday troubles. It’s peaceful. The water is lapping onto the nave. I can nearly smell the salt in the air. The warm wind carries soft sand into my hair. My drenched laundry flapping around me adds to the imaginary. Here in my mind, I have complete privacy. Here, there is no difference between what is and what could be.
Listen to: Maximilian Hecker – Summer Days in Bloom
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