Bookmark #869

It is eleven thirty in the morning, and the sun hasn’t broken through the sky yet. The fog still covers the buildings like a memory you remember in parts. The incomplete trees appear intermittently all over the scene like a canvas on the easel while the painter has gone out to lunch. The coffee got colder before I had half of it, and now, icy cold, black liquid remains in the cup. It does not matter, but this day has this frigid cover over it. This sort of coldness never goes away until the sun breaks, but the sky, too, is uncooperative today. Yet, the chilly air has brought quiet comfort along. I stood on the balcony for a good thirty minutes and stared at the makeshift, nebulous horizon and felt the breeze go by, tracing every exposed part of my skin with the softest of touches. And I stood there, completely alive, completely aware of who I have been, who I am, who I am meant to be. It was an important yet vacant moment. Perhaps it was all the more important because it was vacant. Then, I walked back in, slid the balcony door shut, and sat to write again. I reckon there is not much to say today. If these past few days have taught me anything, it is that the wicked games of fate are beyond my understanding, but for all the fogginess in how things happen to us, good things occur, too.

Parts of my life are blessed as if I were God’s favourite child, albeit the rebellious one, the runt of the litter, for I refuse to believe in the existence of such an entity, and perhaps, this is why, or maybe for no reason at all, the other parts are cursed to the point of a personal vendetta, where I can only sit in and look at yet another impossible situation unfold in the middle of the fanciest bar as they confirm five times before opening the expensive bottle of champagne, and I can look at my hands and think, “I made this life happen,” and I can look at you and think, “yet for all the times I have met you, it has been a day too early or a year too late.” So there I sat, under the burgeoning cover of the same fog that has remained till now, laughing and oscillating between looking at my hands and looking at you, cursing a God I do not believe in under my breath.