I have sat to write a bit too late—a whole day has passed, but something done is always better than nothing, and so, I sit here in this vacuous bed and breakfast hall, surrounded by an annoyingly bright sofa and a couple of bean bags of the same red. I have lost track of what is in my system, but I think the nap I just woke up from was necessary. Of all the people I came with, only two are here in their rooms. I do not know where the others are—probably walking down the market road right outside the alley which leads to this building.
Yesterday evening, we sat at this very empty bar with a sprawling view of the sea. At some point, as I looked at the sea, perhaps because of some principle of Physics my brother would remember, the sunglasses I wore filtered all the unnecessary bits in the sea, and all I could see were static waves in the centre, pretty much exactly how it was on the old television sets when you did not have cable or a signal or a rat had chewed the wire off. But a forced simile or not, it sure was beautiful. I stared at the sun and watched the water, and for a minute, I felt an untouched sort of joy. It was unnecessary to even talk to the friends I was there with. I could easily have sat there for years if not for the loud music—an insult to the gurgling of the waves and the murmurations of the sea. But then, it was a club in the end, and they do not care for the view or the peace; they only care about charging you cover for overpriced beer and food.
It does not matter, though. There are good things around, and life is comfortable enough—barely any complaints if I am honest. But still, I can sense that I am angry at things that have long happened, that I could not control then, or I could not control even if I knew exactly how they would transpire. But I must walk off it year by year, footprints in the sand or whatnot.
In any case, this wayward piece is but me trying to catch up with myself. There, I backdated it for yesterday. We must make room for life in our pursuits, not the other way around.