9:37 pm
It’s 9:37 pm, I just read Sandra Cisnero’s One Last Poem for Richard that I feel sentimental and hence I’m here. It’s getting colder day by day and I regret not going to the sea the past week. French Riviera to me is pure poetry, being here spending the beginning of autumn which is slowly transitioning to winter brings the realisation that this year is coming to an end in two more months and I’m revisiting random pages of my journal: as I read lines, it’s beautiful. It reminds me of the spaces I’ve been emotionally, the sunsets I saw, and the people who painted my world.
I had a marvellous year and here I am typing down parts from the journal entry I got as I was opening pages with closed eyes.
On May 21, I wrote: Some days writing just flows, and some days it is difficult to find the right words to address your feelings. The breeze here is gentle that my hair feels good. For some reason I am now thinking of the article “The Politics of Hyphen” I skipped reading- maybe I should go back and read it.
August 1: Time is like a blur these days. I don’t know what is happening, I feel like I do not have control over what is taking place. There are screams, shoutings and yelling- yes, I know all these words mean the same.
8 February: There was this blunt silence. I told him he can be honest. “I like you” he said.
May 3: On most days when the sky change its colour, I think of all the things that are yet to happen in life. This evening is pure beauty. The sky has laid down all her burden by letting out a downpour. The greyness is now swallowed by the darkness of night. Near to the horizon it’s a subtle reddish orange.
1 June: How fast days go by. June will disappear too. Yesterday I wished it was December. It would have been so nice if it was December.
July 9: Where do all the unrecorded moments of life go? Is there a place where all these little instances are remembered or do they die and go to a place called nowhere and are never thought about anymore? Day was not very productive for me. Actually, the past couple of days have absolutely gone to waste. The only good thing I did today was exercise. Ran the football field until the song in my head exploded and I had to stop to catch my breath.
April 10: So who stays? What is constant? Nothing! But “nothing” is such a void and it reminds me of an abyss which is deeply disturbing. I wrote on my mirror, “When will I travel, again?” I want to feel it: departure, new city, strange people, blissful solitude, the rush of energy as I run across open spaces. When again? For now, let me sleep…
22 March: Ok, let’s go with stream of consciousness today. I stare at the dark ceiling of the room listening to the fan. The clarion call is heard at 4:57 am. Terrace was beautiful. My nose is cold and I like it. My skin is shedding. These birds are “morning people” I wonder if there is a late waker amongst them.
Undated: How we laughed about the wolves and wild boars of Romania and suspected that the waiter must have mixed something in my orange jucie and your beer. The way you dealt with the dodgy stranger who came our way. It was a cold night, the kind where it doesn’t feel cold because you’re having so much fun.
31 August: Now I am sitting by my usual place. There is peace. There is warmth in heart. The cold, frozen feeling is slowly subsiding. There is no much wind but still the trees are gently swaying. The sky looks different and I know why but I don’t want to remember the reason. There is a newly found sense of liberation.
