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The Inner Symphony
a story by Yoshino
My current sanctuary is nestled in the heart of Curitiba: a one-bedroom apartment, styled with a curated collection of modern furniture, and shelves generously populated by an extensive collection of books.
Every morning, the routine is the same: I rise with the sun, prepare my coffee in my single-serve aluminum French press, then write. This ritual serves as my anchor, providing a much-needed rhythmic pattern for sustained equilibrium.
The French press is a memento, a thread that weaves a connection to my grandmother's past. As a former barista, she always claimed that the first cup of coffee in the morning was akin to a warm, inviting love letter to oneself. The coffee's complex aroma permeates the apartment and awakens my senses, reviving cherished memories of my childhood spent observing my grandmother's artistry in her quaint coffee shop.
Beyond the microcosm of my apartment lies a city renowned for its innovative urban planning and rich culture. I look out my window to observe the billow of fog that drapes over the skyline—like an impressionistic painting, soft, muted, and serene. The usual hustle of the city is momentarily pacified, replaced with the tranquil scene of people quietly waiting for their bus, each person a story waiting to unfold.
Curitiba's winter, though mild compared to many places, has an uncanny ability to seep into one's bones. My tiny electric heater hums away in the corner, engaged in a losing battle against the concrete walls. It's a stark reminder of the challenges that accompany the choice to live a nomadic life abroad. Yet, with every shiver, I'm jolted into a heightened state of awareness of the thrilling journey I've embarked upon.
Despite the contrast between the warmth of my coffee and the chill of my surroundings, I find a peculiar sense of harmony. The sensory interplay propels my narratives, infusing life into my words. With each written account, I paint a vivid portrait of my life—a life as rich and complex as the city of Curitiba itself.
As my mind drifts further into waking consciousness, a question emerges on the page, “How does the page want to be written?”—a stark contrast to my usual musings.
It sounds odd at first, attributing a want or desire to an inanimate object. But I find a strange kind of poetry in it. The idea that the page isn't just a receptacle for my thoughts but an entity with its own agenda, its own voice.
As I reflect on this question, I think about the grain of the paper beneath my fingertips, the texture of each individual fiber. It's almost as if the paper holds its own unique history, has traveled a journey before reaching my desk. A journey from a tree in a forest, through a factory, to a stationery shop, until it finally sits in front of me.
I consider this, intrigued by the silent language of the page, its journey. Perhaps my role isn't to impose, but rather to listen, to become a conduit for the story it wants to tell. Is it my story that I write, or a collaboration of histories intertwining into an eloquent dance of ink and paper?
This newfound perspective inspires a fresh reverence for the act of writing. It's not just a solitary endeavor but a silent conversation between me, the pen, the paper, the room, and the world outside my window.
I look up from my desk, contemplating this interplay. My gaze lands on the shelves of books lining my apartment wall—each one a testament to the silent voices of hundreds of pages. I ponder the thoughts, dreams, and emotions that each author poured onto those pages, the unseen dialogue that transpired during the writing process.
Each day as I pen my thoughts, I am a part of this collective act, weaving my stories into the fabric of human narratives, engaging in a subtle conversation with the vast chronicle of life.
Curitiba's urban hum slowly begins to rise again, permeating the calmness of my apartment. Outside, the fog is slowly starting to lift, unveiling the city in its morning glory. It's as if the city has joined the conversation, its daily life narrating its own tale of existence.
The dialogue doesn't end when I put down my pen. It persists, subtly influencing my interactions with the city, the people, and the world around me. Each encounter adds another thread to the tapestry of stories that I'm helping to weave. The story of the page, the story of the city, and my story—all are intertwined in an intricate ballet. The hum of the heater, the warmth of the coffee, the chill of the winter, all contribute to the rich symphony of my existence in this Brazilian sanctuary.
As the sun continues to rise, I am not merely observing the day unfold, but actively participating in its creation. I pick up my pen once more, keenly aware of the blank page in front of me.
"How does the page want to be written?" I ask again, and this time, I'm truly listening. Each fiber of the paper seems to hum with anticipation. And with that, I dive into another day of writing, of living, of being—more present and more connected than ever before.