One lazy afternoon, I decided to take out my hand-written journals for a read. I had the whole day, and in a mood for a narcissistic endeavour, I flipped the pages open. I thought I’d share some entries with you, with all its grammatical mistakes and slippages:
I revel in writing. As if time were suspended and every curvature of each word was relished like warm soup– skimming the top, letting a mouthful linger around my tongue and the soup slowly reaching the bottom of the bowl then, all of a sudden the clock starts ticking again and I realise there’s so much time left and I can’t possibly stomach another bowl of soup. There’s twelve hours left till sleep but I want my day to end already. I think I have accomplished enough, felt enough pleasure, trudged through insurmountable boredom. A nap could alleviate, but it only means I’ll have, trouble sleeping later.
I don’t usually go
to the cinemas
but it seems only uncommon
that I don’t
It’s dark and dank,
the lights pulse
on our arms and faces
Maybe you’d lean
closer to me
our arms custodians
to that single arm rest
you take the first half, I’d take
and then it ends
We exchange our comments
I drive you home
You shut your door
And I shut mine.
Love chooses lonliness
Like a child chooses his first pet dog
[…] When I burst into tears in the car, or on my bed, in the shower, or in my sleep, I cry the tears of my histories– I carry the weight of my ancestors that I will never get to know. I don’t know what my great-grandmother looks like, but I carry her still.
It is only through the sophistication of language that I experience these things. It is because I feel the scathing and unbearable pain of my own existence that I can fall in love with a 10-paged fiction bound to the spine of a Penguin book.
If I am here by mistake, then by mistake I will live.
Things I don’t think about
I never really think much about:
(2) The nib of a pen
(4) The Dewey system
(5) Stamp designs
But I think…I think a lot about death, and about time– about passing time. How do I pass time? I’d lie on the floor for 30 minutes, watch an episode of a TV show for 20, eat a snack for 10, and maybe look at the clock for a while, and when it gets unbearable and I’ve run out of ideas, I’d write:
“The night is closing in. I am lying on the floor. A car passes by and I hear it– the sound of a man heading home or to dinner.”
Five minutes pass and I’m thinking again of what else to do, because in each doing there is less of my thinking and the less I’d remember. The minutes before I sleep are the most exhilarating. I feel most alive, like I’m left with just three minutes and I suddenly don’t want it all to end.
And the truth of the moment is this: That there isn’t a reason, for reason is how we make sense of the unknown, of the abysmal pool of questions and it is then that reason is insufficient, arbitrary and unreliable.
Falling in love is like
falling in space