tea party, january 2016

I don't reminisce that period often. I'm not sure why: many great things happened back then. But then, maybe it's the mood of it, towards the end: things did not go as planned. Not that it felt like defeat, or like disappointment. I suppose it merely felt like a confirmation: things do not last. 
There were two times when I hosted something like a house party, when there were more than five people in my house at once: a strange memory. It truly happens terribly rarely. This home back here, I cannot remember - sometime around 2012, perhaps, when I had a group of friends around to bake hundreds of gingerbread cookies. Before that, maybe for a birthday, back as a child. But that doesn't quite count. And then, last year in the UK, there wasn't enough sitting space for more than four people, even if I could have fed more at once out of my rice cooker. 
I do miss the view. Second floor, the windows were low and big, and I could observe different angles of the universe out of them: the east out of the kitchen window, the west out of the living room and my bedroom. Watching the sunsets was definitely an advantage. 
There were times I spent on that sofa, awake all night, in anticipation of something, still young and naïve enough to believe that the something could appear. 
There was so much beautiful light.


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