It's just: an apricot toast and a cloud on a wall

Sick. From the toes to the head. I am thinking about potatoe salad, carrot soup, pesto spaghetti, fried camembert and toast with apricot jam. The only things that I want to eat right now. The streets smell of tar and I am angry that my neighbors left their garbage in front of their door again. It stinks, it makes me even more sick. Why are some people so lazy they can't even walk down some stairs.  I am forcing myself to drink ginger water but my saliva goes into all directions and it makes me so incredibly tired. While reading the newspaper the image of my cornflakes-eating father appears in front of my eyes. His grey, fragile hair still slightly wet from the shower, the milk and the strawberry yoghurt become visible as a small stripe between his lips and then he takes his yellow tablet, he flushes it down with coffeee, he puts back his head and clears his throat.
"She must feel so fragile", the Australian boyfriend of my friend writes on whatsapp. I have to think about those words. That a stranger, someone I barely know, the man of someone else is more affectionate than the man who has made me fragile. I do feel a bit like a cloud filled with rain, a cloud that still has to take a long voyage before losing all its water, all its pesticides and sourness. But as a cloud I can fly, I can change my form and I can melt with other clouds. My mum painted my room in blue with white clouds when I was a child. I remember a photo in front of that wall. I am five years old, it is carneval and me and three other girls pretend to be someone else. Two princesses, a witch and me, dressed as the character Pippi Langstrumpf from Astrid Lindgren's novel. Pippi Langstrumpf has red, stiff braids, wears leather hotpants and two different socks full of holes. She lives alone in a house with a monkey and a horse, her dad is a seafarer and she only sees him from time to time. But besides her loneliness she is a happy child because she is full of crazy ideas, a survival artist. My mum is a clown, she has a big tear on her white cheek. We are all sitting on my small bed, behind us the white soft clouds on the blue wall.
Will I ever paint a wall for my child? Or is this fantasy lost forever in my own childhood, something I cannot transmit from one generation to the other? I need to say goodbye before I have even said Hi. I think that is what makes me so fragile. That I am not that lioness that hunts and brings up her child in the shadow of a desert. I am the lioness who gets lost in the jungle, losing sight of her herd because the herd tells her she needs to walk alone.


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