I have, with all my faculties, accepted that time flows faster when you’re happy. It was January yesterday. I started it with a sigh, part out of fear, part out of exhaustion, and a smidge of hope squeezed into the space between them. It is August already, and it seems to be ending faster than it began. I do not know where my days have gone, but they have passed, and I have things to show for them. I have these words. I have memories. But it was January yesterday. That, too, is the truth. All my days are the same, and all of them are good for the most part. I wonder what someone does once they get here. I wonder why people keep chasing things when it is in stopping the chase that you reach any semblance of peace whatsoever.
I sat to write in the morning, but hungover as I was, I decided to take a nap. When I woke up, I started reading. Then, I dozed off again. But it was Sunday; on Sunday, you meet people and handle chores. So, eventually, I dragged myself out of bed and started to write again, just so I could leave in time to do both. I picked the cup up out of muscle memory and realised the coffee had gone cold. It did not matter. I was still happy. I was still writing. That is all the change in the world. That is the only change that has mattered. I am writing. I have never written as much as I have since January.
They ask me: what did you do to get here? I tell them I wrote my days away. They laugh. I don’t know why they don’t understand. All people must do things they want to do, things that are dear to them, even with all the troubles and tribulations of life. Everyone must earn money, and everyone must eat. But you must find a way to do the other thing that constantly weighs on your mind. For me, it is writing. For many, it would be something else. But everyone must do it. That is the only way to be at peace with life, no matter what happens.
The rains are still here, even though August is ending. It has been the most torrential monsoon this year. This is how I will remember August from this year forever. The overcast sky looming beside me, and me, sitting here, writing, every single day of the month. There is no better way to remember anything.