The teacup and the scarf

There are two types of lonesomeness in the life of a human being. Both exist in a tight symbiosis with time. Both nourish time and both are nourished by time passing by. Their interplay is soft and gentle when it rages a rain of fire at the same moment. Impulsive. Reckless.

The first type of lonesomeness is like a teacup. A teacup that you embrace with your fingers and carry with you so tenderly as if you fear, it will break into a million fragments when you hold on to it too tight. Its warm yellow colour shines so bright, it could compete with the lights of sun if it wishes to. The teacup is with you when you cuddle up in your silk-smooth sofa with a squared woolen blanket, right next to a silently crackling fireplace.

The steam of your favourite tea caresses your cheeks and sensually brushes your skin. You might smile or you might begin to hum a tune, just for yourself. But you do not feel the force to make a noise because you cannot stand the silence and peacefulness of the snowflakes that dance quietly behind your window glasses through the cold fresh air.

This type of lonesomeness is cosy and pleasant. It drops by like a friend you have not seen for a very long time. But it is only you. Only you with your teacup. The liquid swirls around your soft lips and gives you a tiny glimpse of freedom. A flavour of lightness. A scent of happiness. You close your eyes. Time stops for only the moment of a deep breath. A time so precious and fragile. And when you open your eyes again, you continue blissfully living your life.

The second type of lonesomeness is like a scarf. A dark grey scarf that scratches your skin like a pungent blade over and over again. The stitching wounds seem never to heal, the pain never to end. The cashmere wool keeps on nagging. The scarf encloses your throat firmly, pulling ever so tight that you feel a million years must pass by before you will be able to breathe properly again. It makes you shut up, no matter how loud you want to scream. Its power controls you. And it plunges you ever so deep into the darkest night with the finest relish, inflaming a burning rage in your heart and your head. A lightning in your eyes that makes you blind to any gentle smile and a thunder in your ears that drowns out any laughter, voracious for happy times.

The second type is restless and troubled. It drops by like a nightmare you must fight. You find yourself in an empty room with no windows and a locked door and you know, there is no escape yet. You cannot wake up, yet. You cannot shift your mind into some tranquil dream, yet. Your eyes are closed and you cannot seem to find the strength to open them.

But then slowly something happens. Time goes by and you start again, one day at a time. It is said that time heals all kinds of wounds and maybe this can be true. When time stops for the only moment of a deep breath, you will fill your lungs with new air. You open your eyes again one day, take off the dark grey scarf and you will find yourself looking at the morning sun with a tiny yellow teacup in your hands.