s.j. In Focus

It is a cold morning in late December. The shops and bistros
along the  Limat River are triste.  Like a blade of ice, the wind cuts sharply through
the cobblestoned streets of the Altstadt. Not far from the  Limat River,
in a modest apartment on Brunn Gasse, a young man sits by his desk. Only a
shade of pastel bleaches through the nearby window, around him shadowy objects.
A bed, a cabinet, few unopened boxes in the corner, beside, a mid-sized
bookshelf. Once in a while the young man stands up, walks few steps between half-opened
books and magazines cluttered on the parquet floor, looks up at a clock on the
opposite wall, and returns on his desk. He stares blankly on an unread
newspaper in front of him, but his mind is not empty, not at all. Should he see
her? Should he go and visit the pharmacist woman? He hardly knows her, she’s immature and deceiving.
But her touch, her lighthearted nature, the way she soothes his restless mind. He
must see the pharmacist woman again.
    At the Rudolf Brun Brücke Station by the  Limat River he
takes the streetcar number 4, passes by Bellevue Platz, and descends at
Fröhlichstrasse, where she lives near the  Zurich Lake .
She already awaited him at the door, they have tea on the couch in her living
room, and within heartbeats she feels his growing weakness, yet it is his
insecurity that draws her more to him. They make love, intense and with passion. After an hour, she says she must leave for
work, they say goodbye to each other.
    On his way home he feels empty, he does not get on
the streetcar number 4 at Fröhlichstrasse Station, decides to walk. He passes
by the mourning trees in funeral costumes and the tomb-like benches along the Theater
Strasse. Under the struggling pale behind the drapery the wind is bitter, but
from his face alone one could not tell the young man is aware of his
surroundings. Near the Grossmünster Cathedral he makes a right into the winding
cobblestoned alleyways of the Altstadt, and arrives on Brunn Gasse. By the
door, he gets today’s newspaper from the mailbox, walks up the staircase, and
enters his apartment. Only a shade of
pastel bleaches through the nearby window. He sits by his desk and stares
blankly on an unread newspaper in front of him.

 
Time is a circle, infinitely repeating itself; we are
trapped by each oscillation of its pendulum, while time never grows old. The
young man stares at his life, transfixed he loses sight of the things around
him that must be done, realizes that the only certain thing is time, like the
date on the newspaper.

 May
you make decisions that matter this year around!

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            - S. J. M.

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