A lingonberry stain was the best source of life. The most poignant affirmation of things being tangible and having meaning, texture, and violence, but it was also just a lingonberry stain. The empty seat opposite her, where her doppelgänger and parallel had been – now only a vision of herself left to ponder what remains. A lingonberry stain.
There was an inner calmness, a self-assuredness, verging on arrogance, that she hadn’t felt in a sad amount of time.
She goes away wanting to want to return. This time, she was filled with abject sadness, terror, a living dread of this city.
Love, towards herself, grew within her for the first time in a very long time.
She wrote at that time that the best things that are, are only temporary. Dew, snow, tears, are fleeting. Hubris exists. The weather is eternal, is dying, is reality.
Eternity is a momentary ideal.