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A Nordic Daydream
Dec. 10th, 2007 11:59 pmI walk through snow-covered fields and frozen lakes. I pass through streets and squares of cobblestone, stopping to read an advertisement on the side of an electric tram: foreign words. And about me the stillness of a weekday afternoon under the moon, thinking of returning home to the embrace of my love and comforting words softly sounding!
But the frost and the wind that bite my lips are of a far colder night, and the fields are football pitches. The rumble of buses carrying nobody shakes the stillness of the hour, and the only things that await me are the hollow tip-tap of keyboards, and whispered nonsense from my tongue.
My eyes see nothing but longing. My heart feels nothing but longing. How much I wish that all of that was real and not my imagination! For though the imagination generates images, they are but impressions and not visions. I do not see them in the mind's eye; I feel them. Until the senses marry the imagination, I am paralyzed in wait; and in waiting rots away the very things that will bring about their union.
But the frost and the wind that bite my lips are of a far colder night, and the fields are football pitches. The rumble of buses carrying nobody shakes the stillness of the hour, and the only things that await me are the hollow tip-tap of keyboards, and whispered nonsense from my tongue.
My eyes see nothing but longing. My heart feels nothing but longing. How much I wish that all of that was real and not my imagination! For though the imagination generates images, they are but impressions and not visions. I do not see them in the mind's eye; I feel them. Until the senses marry the imagination, I am paralyzed in wait; and in waiting rots away the very things that will bring about their union.
