She gave a quick glimpse at the watch on the wall, with a lazy and disgusting feeling. It did not matter to her what time it was.
She just looked, for no reason.
But deep down she knew, everything happens with a reason, right?
Even this already boring cliché it starts to experience the peak of misery.
So, yes, even if it is true, it loses its basic and true meaning.
Thoughts lined up, worthless, and completely unnecessary, insignificant.
Oh, yes! The clock had set the hands at exactly 22:00 pm.
The moment she looked at her watch, it stopped working.
It just stopped.
She started laughing. Loud and crazy. In the end, she cried.
"The clock stopped the moment I looked at it,"- she thought bitterly.
She refused to believe that she was on the verge of madness.
The room smelled of coffee and vanilla. It did not smell like cinnamon.
"I miss my cinnamon"
She pulled back the heavy blue curtain, and in front of it appeared the glass door. The view was beautiful. But she was alone. She only wanted to smell the cinnamon mixed in the whirlwind of yellow leaves.
"Can the word pain be equated with the magnitude and strength of the feeling of pain?"
There was no answer, just Radiohead with Daydreaming in behind from the radio.
She opened the glass door and the smell of autumn pierced her skin. She was surprised to see that she could still feel.
The autumn wind was pleasant, but it did not have the element of that beautiful, damn raw cinnamon.
"I miss him. No, no, that’s not missing. I need it terribly, I need it! "
The glass door remained open, even though the coldness had already haunted the apartment. She sat down in the armchair, closed the eyes, and opened her nostrils wide.
She sought the cinnamon of her spirit. With her eyes closed, she got up and started touching the furniture, touching her nose to those material things, and looking for something she could not touch. She looked strange.
This was unsuccessful.
"I will make cappuccino ... and add cinnamon. "Yes, that’s a good idea."
And so she did. The cinnamon cappuccino stood in front of her on the table. She was looking at the cappuccino as it was a subject that needed to be studied well. She took the cappuccino and put it under her nose, closed her eyes again. There was something really disturbing about her ritual. Small drops of salt fell into the cappuccino with cinnamon.
Now she began to feel too much. She was definitely not numb. The smell remained another life, another happy time.
Gently she was touching the cup of cappuccino with cinnamon, and left it on the table.
This was not the cinnamon she was looking for. This was not the happiness she was looking for. The little salt drops were so fast. Nothing mattered to her anymore.
She sat down on her favorite armchair again, and the smell of vanilla became unbearable. She needed the cinnamon that she once felt, engraved in her body, in her soul, and now she could not touch it at all.
And then a big deep black hole.
Who are you and who am I? Was I born on this day? Well, then, how many summers and how many winters do I have in my body, in my spirit?
No. I think I am older. I don't know.
The waves hit the rocks. It's dark, these eyes do not see, they only hear. With every blow on the rocks, the brain trembles, the heart is born, the sleeping soul fights with indifference.
Ahh. I have learned a new word and it is called AHH. But I asked who are you?
Hot blood springs from my body. The rocks tremble, the power of the water wawes is great, and I exist.
I thought "I" was my body, but "I" was my soul.
Didn't you teach me that?
But tell me once, who are you, do you have a name? And yes, tell me who am I? From what elements am I created and tell me, what kind of being am I?
Ah, the eyes.The eyes. Clear, oh so clear, an ocean in which I can not swim, and yet I am in it. I'm taking a risk.
But is there anything else left for me, when this is the real thing I have to immerse myself in? I have a feeling I will sink in this ocean. But even if it happens, I decide to happen.
The ocean overwhelms me. The smell of cinnamon spreads. But what is this cinnamon like?
Oh, what a blissful feeling. But why is all this like this and not different? Did you create the elements of my soul?
How did you create me?
Those eyes. Take me, carry me forever.
Waves on the rocks again, and they are already being released, sinking. The tiny crumbs touch me, on the face, in my so-called eyes, eyes that see for the first time.
The scent of cinnamon mixed with the scent of love moves towards me, enters me, is engraved. It causes a new world in me.
The ocean with the smell of cinnamon calls me, haunts me.
But you do not tell me what you are.
You came quite spontaneously when the day was just day and the night a refuge from reality. You came when the water hit the rocks and my eyes did not watched, they just listened. You came when I did not exist. The depth of your spirit created me and made me yours.
Do you listen to the angels?
Can you smell the cinnamon you carry?
Are you aware of the warmth you possess?
Did you feel the presence of angels at our first meeting?
Did you see the trembling of the lips from the desire to taste the cinnamon in the wine?
The waves are still hitting the rocks. They are crumbling, and I exist. The wine that hit my cheeks, and the eyes, those eyes of yours.
I feel you at the tip of my fingers, at the tip of my eyelashes. And deep inside.
Feelings flow like a reflection in a mirror, but they do not stop interrupting.
Now I am truly immortal.
The autumn wind seemed to want to break this memory, this illusion.
She woke up. The cinnamon cappuccino was still on the table. She got up and closed the window, returning the blue curtain to the original position. She was thinking about what happened to her, what she wanted, and had.
She could not continue the dream.
"A wonderful dream. Yes, a dream provoked from the smell of cinnamon."
The apartment now smelled of the cinnamon she wanted and was looking for. She enjoyed this crazy illusion of hers. Missing it, she created this illusion.
She knew this was temporary, but she also knew that this was a part of her maturing, growing.
The clock showed 22:00 pm, but the time did not stop.