Some days, in the very same moment that I wake up, I know it: today is going to be one of those days.
I walk trhough the city not really walking, not really living. Everything around me feels hostile: the noises of the city, people staring at me. I give the seat on the bus to that old man standing on his feet with a sadness in his eyes that my heart can hardly bear. Even though he looks at me with anger. I have to hold my tears.
I think of the past, and the future. I think of the present and those little notes on my desk telling me who I am.
“You are you”
“You are here”
“Here is now”
“Now you are”
I tell to myself that I can do it. I can smile to the people. I can be nice to them, and they will be nice to me just as they were yesterday.
But I can’t. They smell my fear, like my mother used to say dogs do.
So I just walk trhough the city not really walking, not really living; asking my only god, music, to bring me back to reality, to make me at ease with the situation.
And so it does. Tomorrow it will be fine. But today this is all I got:
October, the month that gave me life. The month that took his.
RIP Bert Jansch.
