Spring is arriving sporadically in Berlin, like a performer who only sometimes remembers her cues. There's great anticipation, but crappy execution. Oh, Berlin, what a commitment-phobe you are. Seriously, you're worse than the guys on GayRomeo.
All the fluctuations are making me feel out of step with the world around me. Yesterday, I barely registered a skinhead at Alexanderplatz. He was wearing those giant leather boots and all I could think about was how I needed new clothes. That's how out of it I am. I am like that woman in the Clariton commercial before the soft-focus is peeled away. I know there are real things around me, but all I see are blobs.
The trash is slowly being cleared from empty concrete ponds in the park near my house, which is just drawing attention to how much trash is still in them. At some point, there will be water and lilipads and maybe even a happy frog or two but right now there's just a soggy pizza box and a bunch of cigarette butts.
Before I moved to Siberia, I barely registered the weather. Seattle has two seasons: drizzly and overcast, and sunny and 70. Berlin is a whore with mood-swings and a violent temper in comparison.
Spring is a state of mind that I relish. I want to feel like a fresh young daffodil in the morning dew or a productive baby chicken. I'm waiting for the newness and freshness to wash over me like a Mentos commercial. All my thoughts will be so different then. I can't wait.