Why CANT we rewind?

The weather surely can. I thought it was spring. March is said to be the first month of spring and the sun and the sunshine and the breeze warming through my formally dressed body made me dream of summer.

Not today. The snowstorm caught with London and me. The weather decided to remember and relive those unforgiving moments of wind pushing you at the crossroad to cross when cars have still not stopped.

I have been bought two times the present of a clock. Mostly because it is hard for me to wake up in the morning.

Despite my wealth in clocks I cannot seem to get one to work and the other one to stop.

I wish I could rewind them both to my own beat, the beat of this very word that you are reading now, the beat of how, the beat of not now, the beat of return, the sweet return of the water war in garderns smeeling of cement and uncontrollable children ramaging flowers that have not yet grown.

STEAM OUTSIDE THE STEAMROOM!

I m going to live forever. I am going to learn how to fly.

Being a fly on the wall and a wallflower has its perks too I have learnt during my absense from the steamroom.

What is the cryptic way of saying THIS?

THIS is the this I have hated, loved, accepted, fought, defied and returned.

THIS hides a death residing in me, in mine, in his and for life.

THIS hopes and now acquired new cells fresh with cleansing tea, yoga, clubbing, dancing, mellowing down the solution pumping out of Greek veins eager to explode into

a bonfire, beat the sky and the sun for being naughty and hiding away from me, stare

up towards forward the blue that I have missed by holding tight onto the underground bars

trembling when the happy mouse of London comes out of under the ground, the sudden breaks of sunshine, of rain burst within an S and the THIS wake up time to work

drain drain me gangsters of London, attempt to laugh, attempt to whisper your spells beside your headset and I will be there for you during your sad,
your happy
your stupid

times.



and now enjoy your spring.