Atmospheres
I can’t tell anyone what I like.
It’s not that it’s something embarrassing,
Or something I need to keep a secret.
I just don’t have the words for it.
And I can’t show them what I mean.
I love atmospheres.
Like the feeling of walking alone
In a golden-coloured alley
While the wind gently stirs up the leaves.
Or the mood of the last bus home
With my earphones playing music as slow
As the gentle swaying of my seat.
The experience of cycling a new route
And gliding over a quiet lake
To be greeted by the fresh sea breeze.
Or the sensation of a small, quiet store
Surrounded by wooden décor
And losing myself in a soft pastel dream.
Atmospheres bursting with life,
Like a packed outdoor concert
Or a party at the end of the year,
Or atmospheres as still as paintings,
Like a storeroom no one uses
Or the empty midnight train.
Atmospheres grounded in reality,
Like the swirling mixture of excitement and worry
In the last minutes of a final exam,
Or atmospheres lost in fantasy,
Clutching a pillow, with goose bumps all over
And watching the climax of a story, in tears.
Each new sensation takes its place in my heart
And when I’m reminded, it’s the same sense of nostalgia
That comes from old songs, stories or games.
But the greatest pity follows
When I’m asked what I’m thinking,
And I can only smile, shaking my head.
Even though each scenario, to me
Is as fond a memory as
A close friend, or a favourite food
No one can possibly share my love
Of the stillness, the calm
Of taking it all in.
We might be together, doing the same things,
But they enjoy the things we are doing
While I enjoy the fact that we are doing them.
I love scenes,
scenarios,
sentiments.
I love feelings,
moods,
experiences.
I love occasions,
impressions,
sensations.
I love atmospheres.
