The empty rooms I see across the yard

Are beckoning for someone to walk in.

And I'm stuck to my chair, a world away.

One neighbour writes a relative a card.

Another scrubs and scrubs the kitchen sink,

And I just watch them. I am bound to stay.

The door swings on their way to school

And slowly slams a definite goodbye

And I can feel my hands begin to rot.

There's fake vines wrapped around a wooden stool,

Its company a string of Christmas lights -

It's March. I think their owner just forgot.

The empty rooms I see across the yard

Are beckoning for me to leave them be.

But I'm stuck to my chair, a world away.

I strolled broodingly through the nearly empty aisles of a clothes shop on a Friday evening. Dresses and heels that once lay on display in this very store, shimmering under bright, unflattering lighting, hoping to catch someone’s eye, were now worn on cold bodies in the city centre, in clubs, bars, at house parties… I didn’t know if anyone had been having a house party that night.

“I have never seen H&M play it so safe,” I thought to myself. Every single item of clothing was drab, emotionless, and uncreative. Florals, pinks, greens, pale beiges, and collared jumpers as the breakthrough spring collection? Fascinating.

Everything bored me. I felt nothing. I wanted to feel excitement and interest, but how could anyone be interested in those clothes? A military-green Jurassic Park tee was possibly the most alternative and imaginative article there. I felt nothing. I’d seen it all.

I strolled broodingly through the nearly empty aisles of a clothes shop on a Friday evening. Dresses and heels that once lay on display in this very store, shimmering under bright, unflattering lighting, hoping to catch someone’s eye, were now worn on cold bodies in the city centre, in clubs, bars, at house parties… I didn’t know if anyone had been having a house party that night.

“I have never seen H&M play it so safe,” I thought to myself. Every single item of clothing was drab, emotionless, and uncreative. Florals, pinks, greens, pale beiges, and collared jumpers as the breakthrough spring collection? Fascinating.

Everything bored me. I felt nothing. I wanted to feel excitement and interest, but how could anyone be interested in those clothes? A military-green Jurassic Park tee was possibly the most alternative and imaginative article there. I felt nothing. I’d seen it all.

There’s panic in the streets and somehow that is the most calming lullaby to the loneliest of people. To know that there are parents leaving their cars parked in the middle of jammed streets to run home to their children, to know that half the world wants to spend their last days on earth singing and dancing, and to know that tears are nothing to be afraid of gives me the courage to be sad.

I stand on the pavement of the street, cold breeze in my hair, and I put my violin between my thighs and my bow between my lips while I pull the long strands into a ponytail, centred perfectly at the top of my head as I tip back. Once the elastic is securely wrapped around my hair, I resume a professional violinist’s position and put the hair of the bow against the A-string. Then I remove the bow. I haven’t the slightest clue what to play. Dvorak’s “Symphony from the New World” seems entirely too ironic. So without any logical connection, I begin to lightly drag my bow against the strings to the melody of Gershwin’s “An American in Paris”. The happy melody doesn’t seem out of place at all and I wish I could dance and play at the same time, but I’m afraid of tripping over the feet of the masses of citizens running past me.

A child stops to listen to me. She sits at my feet and wraps her arms around my calf,

holding on tight, and I stop playing.

“Pourquoi tu t’as arrêtée?” She asks in a clear Italian accent and I hold both the violin and bow in one hand so I am able to pick her up and move to the bakery under my apartment. I stand at the closed door, she sits on the stairs. “Vas-y, joue!” she urges with a small smile on her face, her dark, sunshine blonde curls bouncing with excitement.

I smile back and resume the piece, tears gathering in my eyes as I think of you and the little girl I wanted us to have. Her name would have been Victoria – after a great sovereign. Oh, what a wonderful thing it is to be named Victory. I think you would have liked it; you were always a fan of history.

Her hair reminds me of my sister. I should think she’s with her best friends, playing music as well. Whenever a song was stuck in my head, the same song was stuck in her head, too, and somehow I have a feeling we both have the same sense of humour to be thinking of Europe’s “The Final Countdown”. I regret all the times I could have spoken to her and didn’t. In fact, I regret many things, but none of it matters anymore. All that matters is what I do now, in the next hour or so. Hopefully, we have at least an hour.

I sit down next to my last friend and she frowns when she sees a tear on my cheek. “T’es triste?” She asks and fumbles with the edge of her sleeve quite pointlessly. I nod my head and smile at her as I sniffle and wipe the tear away, my heart breaking when she hugs me with her small but strong arms.

I think of Mom and Dad. I think of all my relatives, both close and distant. I think of all the people I have loved or cared for, I think of my favourite colours, I think of my favourite songs, and just like that “The Final Countdown” is replaced by Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’”. I sing it out loud and someone running by, a tall and round middle-aged man, stops to listen. In the chorus, he joins in with tears in his eyes.

And I do. I hold on to that feeling as the world is suddenly dark and I have three and a half more seconds to breathe. I hold on to that feeling for as long as I can.

Lover,

You look as if you've seen a ghost.

Or is it the glimmer in your glassy eyes

And loving bites and "I love you the most"

That draws blood from my tired thighs?

Lover,

You sound as if a bullet left you,

Or is it a melody I wanna hear?

Pretend it's no crime, although it's theft.

You chase me down with a bottle of beer and

Lover,

You've lost me along the way,

between "hey, beautiful" and "pretty on your knees".

Tomorrow, you're the one kneeling, a prayer

On your lips. Soft, the heart of the fool who believes.

Lover,

Your breath carries forty men on

My heavy chest and a bottle of rum.

I vow to ne'er return, and then

I'll be back when the bottle's done.