She gave me some Christmas pudding and it was heavily snowing. I took it kindly but didn’t really eat it. I heard what she didn’t say, her eyes were loud and her smile. I put it in my little room and wanted to go far, far to get where I was…

It was cold and quiet outside. I walked up to the London Eye. Some photographers were taking advantage of silence and pure whiteness of their surroundings. I looked at River Thames, I looked at the grey sky, I looked at Big Ben and magnificent building of the British Parliament, and National Theatre where so many stories exposed so many truths in so many painful scenes to become mirrors of the seers’ souls.

London Eye and Big Ben

London Eye and Big Ben

It was getting colder and quieter and I was walking faster on my heels without knowing how much fear and pressure I was under. Was it because of the city of London? Was it because of darkness of my nature? I didn’t know but all I needed was some lines by Beckett or Brecht to make myself feel better back then. If not,by Sarah Kane. Maybe our souls could meet between their lines as our sufferings were almost the same.

Thames did not say much today even to the birds who were paying a visit despite its coldness. Her eyes, her ginger hair and her smile appeared on the thin skin of Thames and disappeared. I am sure she was a nice person, but what was this wall between us? She shared her innermost thoughts with me once. She said she had always found herself too manly. I told her that maybe a different hairstyle could change her masculine look, she said no, she had tried almost all styles. It was the way she felt. I would have helped her really seriously, only if I knew that her way of validating herself was going to be so sickening. She found a man soon after our conversation and got herself fucked really badly as often as any human being could until my schizophrenic landlord and I had to tell her to leave. That was not nice, London Eye witnessed and agreed.
I thought maybe St. Paul Chatedral could tell me something or make me think about something more meaningful than all but it made me feel too small. I just wanted to create something more magnificent than what Christopher Wren just there and then. Why then Virginia Woolf appeared on the face of Sir Wren? I did not understand. My feet were hurting again.

Why did I wait for four years to taste the pudding she gave me so kindly and so quietly? Did I have to be in Smyrna to see that beauty? Where am I , where is that wall, where did it all go? London Eye might know…

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