There’s silence in the house, everyone sleeping, the only sound is the giant wall clock in the living room ticking its way further into the new year.

I sit on the cold leather sofa, listening to Ólafur Arnalds and gaze through a large window into the valley at the foot of the house.

At first, the mist covers everything, and I can barely make out the outlines of trees, a washed-out blue-green, layers over layers of cold pastel colors, blending softly into each other and into the sky.

I feel restless and as I sip from the hot tea mug warming up my hands and watch the slowly changing scenography before me, I calm down, settle into the nothingness of it, letting it wash me away too, absorb me into its stillness.

Countless clock ticks pass, minutes, hours, and the change happens gradually, unperceivable. The light starts filtering more and more through the tree branches, then moves across the landscape, gently caressing everything in its way.

The day unfolds before me, reminding me of how time changes everything – us, our bodies, our faces, every day a little bit, just enough so we don’t realize and it doesn’t take us by surprise.

The fog and the mist evaporate slowly, and the village outline appears into the valley, its church tower and houses bundled up together, keeping each other warm, then spreading into the fields around.

I am still here, sitting on the sofa, mug empty, the clock ticking its way into the new year. Time. Further and further away.


Alexandra Negrut is a Romanian writer and the co-founder of TAST. Based in Barcelona, she started writing poetry in an effort to explore her inner world and know herself better. Follow her here.

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