“Tell them that you weren’t hungry, tell them you followed the pomegranates seeds because they tasted like blood, like love.”
― Pauline Albanese, The Closed Doors
Sun. The longing for a warmth long forgotten. Too many months sprinkled with neutral tones. Greys and whites and freezing cold. Spring came but the longed for, came and went. Bits of hope, piercing the inattentive heart, over and over again. Betrayed by the own mind, wishing the sunlight away, wishing the cold would have stayed.
Sorrow. A feeling that doesn’t betray. It chaperons you through months without an end, makes the time slower, the world faded, more suited for the eyes. Nothing is important anymore. Refined quiet. Now and on listening to the soft whispering in your ears. Nothing matters. Let go. What a sumptuous companion. Suddenly there it is: hope. A charming fellow. The warmth, the light, the feeling of being alive. Everything you wished for. There. In front of you, just a few meters. You can see it, reach out and it is gone, leaving you in the depths of a world greyer than before. The heart heavy. It is about to fall apart. Just let go. The tender hug of melancholy. Stay with me. The sun too bright for the darkness inside. Come Hades, make me your queen.
Aromatic deception 