earthmann

A beautiful woman has awoken and left for work. I am left with a cup of English tea, looking out across the snow-capped roofs of Schwabing, the blue oninion of St. Joseph's prodding the gray sky. Seven floors below, cyclists make there way carefully along the frozen terrain of Turkenstrasse. The plant, which recently has had a steady diet of weissbier, leans hopefully towards the open window. But there will be no rain today. The fresh air coming off the city is cold and dry. Somewhere a garbage truck grumbles in the streets below; it is Monday morning, but still sacred as any Sabbath.

I will catch a train in the next hour or so to the country. A friend which I have not yet seen this year awaits me. There in a garden that sits on a slow river, I will eat and drink and read and sleep and breathe mountain air.

What have I done? What I am doing? What are my dreams? Am traversing the distance that separates me from them? Is there even a distance; could this be my dream? What if I never move a stone from here to there, never punch a window through certain metaphysical walls, but am content with not having done so? Am I really free?
This tea is cold.