Boomerang. That’s the word that came. Boomerang. Bucharest is a boomerang. Settle into this new locale which is rich in greens and blossoms and birds displaying talents in sound and one would be hard put to say the pace is rushed. Settle deeper. With a sigh go shopping for lemons. Who doesn’t love lemonade?
Brave a subtle smile about how thankfully those memories packing tangible and emotional immediacy finally found a far away island and are regaling inhabitants with fishing stories. But then: bam! these walls are not these walls and the birds are taxi beeps and there is an umbrella and a frosty bottle waiting for me to hop on the metro and count the stops and anticipate what will be when emerging from the earth. Sighting beautiful girls is a guarantee.
See the boomerang on the ground. Too dizzy to fetch it, seeing too many Bucharest characters and breathing the foreign soil air; bitching about the apartment prettifying campaign, but because feeling it is my home I can bitch about what is mine. Damn heavy boomerang. Let it rest. Can’t touch it now. Dare not. Doesn’t matter. Leave it, throw it, doesn’t matter. Boomerang. Bucharest is a boomerang.