It hasn’t stopped raining since I woke up this morning, and now it’s dark, with only the streetlamps and their reflections in the puddles for light. It’s cold outside.
This is a good thing.
I feel like the eponymous character in Onegin. Sitting on the balcony in the dead of winter, waiting for a letter. His servant, handing him a stemmed glass of vodka, asks him to come inside because it’s cold. “I like the cold” he replies, as he resigns himself to his fate.
He walks down the streets of Saint Petersburg, and his motif comes in on the piano, followed by strings. FADE TO BLACK.
A stoic face to the world. Can I say stoic? I like stoic.
These titles are getting harder and harder to write.
And I want to say that I’m melancholy, but I’m not. But I’m not giddy either. My emotions aren’t black and white. They’re a mixture of ups and down. I don’t know what to say when I don’t know what I’m feeling or what comes next.
I’m just waiting. Passive. Yielding.