Friday, 1 March 2013
So many days of windowsill living, bent-double-over-a-desk living. There are moments when even the indoor world of wall papers, doorknobs, empty cups and saucers is afflicted with longing. There is a palpable, though inert, stress in these rooms, an inanimate longing to press up against the windowpane. It happens sometimes as the sunset rushes heedlessly through the house, trailing a pink glow in its wake, dripping crimson across the table and the floor. Other times the feeling comes as the harsh light of morning pushes outlines of flowers up against the curtain, a slow film projected to the dim and cloistered room. A plant suffering a terrible thirst is finally watered, and it throws its leafy stalks upwards hastily, forgetting for a short while the visibility of motion.