Prose: March 19, 2013

It’s been snowing for fourteen hours straight.

This is the first time I’ve witnessed this constant flurry in Berlin. It has been a steady reminder of my beloved precipitation that I left on the east coast of the un-united states. It’s the kind of white noise storm that makes me homesick, remembering the days when precious yet irrelevant hours were robbed from us, hours already saved for working, eating, sleeping, and working… and eating. I reminisce about those default holidays where the blizzards were the only thing to slow us down for life (instead of never living it).

It is no secret but yet it is a pungent mystery how no matter the hour in Berlin, you can look out your window or his window or her window or their window or our window, and see some one meandering through the streets, lost in a steady direction. The personification of loneliness in this slutty city.

They travel in one pair of eyes, hard to see eyes, with heavy sturdy legs and most times with arms held behind the back (don’t ask me why). There is always that borrowed loner, idly marching with an accidental purpose, plucked from cooped up spacious caves where cabin fever is dissipated by the daily fright of other’s shadows.

Today was no different but not the same as every other picturesque postcard moment.

This time, while time dropped out of the grey stained stratosphere in little flakes intricate and beautiful in the big picture and in microscopic pondering, this time, my time, our time, each by passer was a swollen silent soldier swallowed by the moving bloodless madness of peace white snow.

They were dressed in black like most Berliners sometimes are, fit for the part of antihero, thickening the plot of their curious and untold stories while all day darkness became equivalent to lightness.

Today I did not create stories for them.

I welcomed the advent of these rogue zoo creatures as if they were artifact for my sensory museum and for a moment, one iota of a moment and solely and surely a moment all my own and in my own time, when the street went the course of momentary absence arrived – I busied myself looking out at the parade of snowy shard showers and wondered if maybe I was the only one watching the wilderness for half hours at a time, mine and only my time… and then across the street at about the angle of nine o’clock, I witnessed a pair stooped up on their balcony, tightly together for a half hour of their own time, their own moment, and they watched the snow with each other, with me and without me, and for the first time during this endless day, I never felt so alone.

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