Ten miles

As a long-time purchaser of scarce volumes
by authors gone in the meridian of their glory
and a humble juggler of words myself,
I certainly can appreciate a good book,
but recently I’ve noticed that in order to read,
I have to cycle ten miles; otherwise, I fall
asleep after a mere paragraph or two.

A simple explanation could be boredom,
but who in their right mind would blame the text
when it comes to their favourite titles?
The first signs of ageing are also a possibility,
although I had hoped it would be at least
another decade or so before my autumn came.
Whatever it is, ten miles doesn’t sound so morbid.

Journal (A history lesson in real life)

So it started again—the Scottish rainy, windy, cold autumn—and since the walls of the building I live in have no insulation whatsoever, just like last year, I locked myself in the small bedroom, moving there also my desk, as it’s the only room in my flat that is actually possible to heat up to some sensible temperature. The larger bedroom that I normally use as an office, with the radiator turned on full, can barely hold twelve-ish degrees during the winter. So, for the next several months, my bedroom will be my nest—or a prison cell, depending on the perspective we look at this arrangement from.

On a positive note, I can say that it gives me a good insight into the living conditions of the very first inhabitants of this place. Like a history lesson in real life, where the daily ablutions are a particularly interesting experience. But, as they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. However, one could expect that, after a hundred and twenty years or so, something would change. Insulating the walls of buildings in the cold north seems so obvious. Perhaps having expectations is a mistake on my part.

Seizing the moment

…and out of the blue, a heavy rain came,
turning the streets into rivers—a harbinger of the coming autumn
already touching the leaves—now dripping with water—of a nearby tree
with the first signs of yellowing; a stream from a broken gutter
rumbles against the windowsill; even the school yard across the street
is filled with patter instead of the typical lunchtime hustle and bustle;
and only the spider residing in the crack of the window frame,
ignorant of it, busily improves its web,
seizing the moment…