Skip to main content

The rooftop garden

At sunrise the air was crisp. For the first time in longer than I could remember I detected a touch of gold at the very borders of the sky. Some touch of the sun had penetrated the heavy soot that surrounded my planet, encasing it in a frozen drear.

There was one other thing besides the thought of Lysander that could lighten my heart, I discovered that morning. It was a hope for reprieve. An idea, even one small thing I could do to stave off the monotonous, identical days, to visit old Agatha on the roof, if there she still lived.

Dust motes drifted like vapor in the dawning light as I softly climbed the carpeted stairs. There were leaves blown across the landing through a broken window. The debris was withered and colorless, turning the carpet to a forest floor, where things decayed.

The wind stirred my hair across my neck as I ascended, growing more breathless at each floor.

The building was generic. My apartments might have been anything: a hospital, a school, a dorm. Memories of all these assailed my senses. I felt how vulnerable was my heart, that I was prey to any seduction, any vice, but there was nothing to console me but that by wish I had no wish to die, my overwhelming unhappiness.

When I arrived at the rooftop garden there was no one. The wind blew the tufts of half-grown, withered plants flat like hairs.

Popular posts from this blog

The secret to a happy home

I finished Marion Harland's guide tonight and I wonder ceaselessly at two things. 1. She is so down on America! Even more than I am. She complains of things in which I am so well-steeped I could not see them for what they were. In particular, American style and cookery. It is true that our food, which we count as so much more generous in portion than the overseas counterpart, is as coarse and indecorous as it is plentiful, but as an American woman I cast up my hands and declare I would rather spend my time on something else. She makes an interesting point about American women's fashions. In France women wear what looks good on them, and in America women wears what comes off the manufacturing line in the latest style. It is very conformist, and I have to admit I feel it in myself, for I would be embarrassed to wear something that is "out" even if it flattered me better. 2. Harland's other point I feel clearly from last night's experiences. I looked in my journ...

Sprouts

Sprouts Originally uploaded by ladyhildegarde . I am getting sprouts. Hopefully they are carnations. It is such a beautiful spring day. It's good I'm taking the chance to come outside: I have craved a moment to reflect on something beautiful.

Poor sleep and bad dreams

I had a bad time of it last night. Going on two weeks now, I haven't felt right. I think though I don't talk about it that I haven't been right since I found out about Mrs. Mark. Lately I have been awakened in the middle of the night by Jonah's frights. I have to turn on the lights to check on him, and this normally wakes me up thoroughly. I can't not check on him because the thought that he might have hurt himself keeps me awake. Last night he was on the perch and the other two were on the floor, looking frightened. Why's my bird have to be such a pain in the ass? Why do I love him almost more than any other living thing? And I don't dream in my sleep so much as think, and it's never of anything calming: either of an error in one of my projects, or something just gruesome.