Foggy Forest

Tuesday, August 30, 2016 Comments Off

There are days when I just want to be tucked away in the corner of a small cafe in the middle of a large city somewhere in Europe. Half sleepy, with bleary eyes and oversized sweater, drinking mad amount of hot tea, while my eyes focused on the dancing raindrops on the window. All I want is the blissfulness that I had experienced many Summers ago—a life separated from the one I lead now.

I can still remember the feeling whenever I take a look at certain shop's ambience; those exposed bricks with metal furniture, or white on white interiors, or homemade baked goodness with the smell of coffee brewing in the background. There is a particular feeling of kinship whenever I come across establishments that offer a kind of relief from homesickness for a past life. They simply understand the need to recreate an experience, the need to imitate something in order to almost become a life removed from the one in here. But it is what they could only be: an imitation, a copy, an almost.

I no longer find the strength to settle with an almost, a replica. There should never be a question to which the answer is settling down with an approximate. How could there be such thing? It should not exist except in the minds of the wanting. Though wanting has always made people feel inadequate, weak, and helpless.

Maybe I have always missed breezy days ever since before I knew that separated life. There has always been this particularly nagging feeling that I should experience something more than explosions of scent and sight. I have always longed for softness, foggy forest, pale sun, breezy summer, tenderness, candles, silk, afternoon cake and tea, and minimalist designs; a kind of life that is alien to the one I grew up with where everything was amplified to the point of suffocation. Longing for a life that I constantly search for amidst the blaring sound of car honking, street seller's shouting, and police sirens; wanting to be nestled between the taste of snow on your lips and the concert of pine trees.

A contrast, is what I have been searching for.

But, unfortunately, life has its own wicked way to let you know that you cannot force fate.

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