Beautiful things do not make themselves known, and how good we have things is a fact as beautiful as the verdant field in front of my eyes right now. The world may feel like it is getting worse, but I believe it is always inching towards better, as a whole. And the terrible becomes more shocking by the day, and it is shocking, baffling not because it is new, but because it is getting rarer. It is louder because we now know this is not how things are, and what was once commonplace and domestic is now considered archaic, incompatible with the world we live in now. That is how things are, and there is no merit to saying it is another way. Diamonds are known to make caves scintillate with brilliance. But a piece of coal in a cave of diamonds will, I wager, be as visible, if not more.

There is a protest again on the larger road nearby. People chanting slogans and the works. This, too, is a staple here, and as much as it feels irritating in the moment for the protests are not always sensible to us, we must remember that all protests are sensible. And I reckon this, too, will remain so. And while I do hope for silence, I hope people will always continue to fight for what is right, too. It is a beautifully loud sound against the unbecoming quiet of the masses.

Beautiful things come in all shapes and forms. Some, we enjoy, and some, we must accept. Everyone varies in this, and what is worthwhile to one may not be to another. I think of this as I retire to inside the room, having had my fill of the slogans, softly memorising them for the hour until something else takes their place. This is not apathy, simply the acceptance of our nature, of my nature. An old jazz track continues to play on the speaker. And it occurs to me that I must now begin the day properly.

I fill my cup with more coffee from the pot. I walk to the couch and finish this piece. The people are still out on the streets. The cat continues digging.

"It will all be fine," I continue to pray on the rosaries of time and do I know this for certain? Absolutely not. I could not tell you the right time without looking at a clock twice. I am far too unreliable to know anything. But alas, it does not hold a candle to the fact that I am optimistic for no reason. I am optimistic about today. I am optimistic about the week to come. And also, for the times to come. Why else would I keep returning to this practice? There is hope in me. It whispers that someday, someone who needs to read these words will find them. And then, it will have been worth writing them. Whether I will be here to witness this, who can say? But all art is generational. All things worth doing are done without thinking about lifetimes.

The other day, I advised my mother to think of her years in weeks, and to think of her days in hours, and that things will become simpler when she begins doing this. We must reduce all things to what we can manage. We can manage ever so little.

Sure, there are tribulations in all lives, some more than others. But I reckon we must grab these slices of delight whenever we get a chance. Fate tickles you ever so often. We must not resist. We must give in. We must laugh. There will be time for stress. There will be time for sadness. But sometimes, a moment is packaged and sent specifically with our name on it. We must open it immediately upon delivery. We must not leave the gift unopened.

And now, they will tell me how I did a great job, and how I ought to give myself more credit. And I will continue to want to say, "No! It is all a farce. I am not who you think I am," but saying it will do nothing, and we will go about the charade again. This is a strange life.

This change, this deliberation, this consciousness was not present in me a few years ago. I reckon life tends to temper you into a person of the world if you let it, and by all means you should let it. Nothing worth doing is worth doing alone. Nothing worth feeling feels better alone, not even the sadness. I am ecstatic to have everyone I have in my life. But, what is more, I am grateful I have let myself feel the warmth of the love so graciously showered onto me like an ill-timed spring rain that no one expects but is glad to receive anyway.

Well, what can you do about it but learn from the mistakes of others? I have a quiet moment today, in this little corner tucked between the morning and the afternoon, and my health has begun to come back to me. Nothing makes me glad. The fever has passed for good, and after a week of waking up to a despicable feeling in my chest, I seem to have awoken to the usual lightness today. I am simply glad for this! I have a low bar for happiness despite the many reservations of those in my life. They do not truly understand me. I am glad to be here, in this life, and I am glad to be doing things that get me elsewhere. I am glad in both because I am glad to be myself. Wherever I go, my soul weighs the same: on ground and in water, and on beige patio chairs in a balcony overlooking an orchard where people argue. The heaviness was lost so long ago. I do not remember how things were before it.

The world is changing rapidly. This country, I notice how the youth, my peers and contemporaries, lack all intention, lack all forethought and all afterthought. How vacuously they live and go about their days. And soon, the world will change quicker; it will not be a good sight. I wish they looked at the plants more often. I wish they looked at the trees more often. So much good would come out of it if they simply paused for a little bit and saw themselves in the light of honesty. I reckon the world would be a wonderful place if people did only that much. A tall order! An impossible request! This is far too big an expectation. I wager the bar is so low and yet they fail to meet it. So many people I meet in my day-to-day life—all empty, all hollow, no intent behind their action, no thought. It breaks my heart.

I remember a long time ago when I sat across the sea and looked at the true infinity it is for the first time, I thought I could move to that large city for "I could write from here". Of course, it was the ramblings of a young man who did not know much beyond to dream. To live in a big city as a writer would leave no time for the writing. But time passed as time tends to do, and now I sit on this balcony, and the sky does not seem as infinite now but it does not seem too limited either. The brush of trees from this high up does seem like a verdant sea, and today, for the first time in years, I thought to myself, "I could write from here".

The same thought reverberated across the tides of memory, rushing and gushing into itself. It feels different. It feels quieter in that I know, in my heart, I could have written from anywhere. And what of these thousand or more? Words wasted. That is all—like a thousand chapters of an unwritten book. But as my mother often noted, I was never one for keeping receipts.

Today I looked at the vast expanse of the outskirts of the outskirts of the city. The absurd construction is not an error; it is a result of all the construction that has happened in what were originally the outskirts. Malls and apartment buildings haunt the valley. And suddenly, the town is larger in one way, but it is so boxed in now that it feels smaller. Perhaps, all things can appear large or small depending on the day.

The reason the expanse, the view, was noteworthy today was because I had forgotten what an infinite patch of grass looked like, and all of a sudden it was in front of me, and I felt like a tourist in my own city. But what was once a bicycle ride away to us is now an hour's drive away. The very landscape the outsiders came to settle in, they ended up ruining. No one is better off for it. But I believe everyone comes from someplace. And that before they become us, they are them. At least, this is the spirit we can take things forward with, and at least, this will help me sleep tonight with the memory of the grass and the brook flowing through it. It will be a memory today, and I wager it will be a memory for all the days that follow soon.

I spent the morning today sitting on the balcony again, surrounded by the chirpiness of the birds. I reckon that, until quite recently, I had never focused on this part of the world: the birds. It was, well, as much a morning as quarter to twelve can be, but the ache in my body after the spell of fever warranted I soak in some of what the sun had to give. Then, I spent the evening working on frivolous undertakings no one would pay me for, since, unlike my contemporaries, I refuse to do someone's bidding out of my own free will. Instead, almost all the traditional work I have done or will do arises strictly out of financial needs. There is no greater mission, no "career", and no part of me shall accept that even a hair on my body cares about the world of companies. It is all so terribly made up, even a five-year-old has better imagination. The people are all so see-through, so shallow, and so weak of thought and character. Not all, of course. There is a hidden tribe that looks once at each other and knows that they do not belong here. But there is no uniting them. There is no greater purpose. We all slave and slog through it together. And then, we call it a day. Why do anything? We are all trapped in this perpetual cycle anyway, and there is no breaking out of it.

A friend of mine has never looked at a bird before. He said to me once that there was no such thing as bird watching, that it was no discipline or hobby because what could be different about birds in the first place? I did not have the knowledge I possess now, both of the experience of sitting and watching them and their antics, and the several species I know about now. I wish I did at the time so I could have bested and destroyed him in that argument. At the time, I simply chalked it up to the spinelessness and lifelessness of a corporate cog and dubbed myself better than him simply because I could, at least, entertain the thought. To entertain a thought is, in itself, a kind of rebellion in today's times. The times dictate we must not think. To think is revolutionary by design. To spread the poison and the virus of thought shall now simply become my goal. Why do anything? To rebel, to revolt, to reserve what keeps us human. Why sit in the sun and watch the birds? Have you ever truly looked at the metallic plumage of a male purple sunbird? You would not ask this question if you ever had.

The morning continued to get on and, then, I sat there taking some of the sun in, thinking about nothing in particular and all things all at once. Suddenly noticed the black kite perched near the array of solar panels on the neighbour's roof. It seemed to be engrossed in some early morning preening. Decided to take a few pictures and did to my heart's content. Then, sat down again and continued to sip some hot coffee until my eyes opened to the microcosm of trees and the myriad of birds flowing, jumping, playing about the whole area. Saw some parakeets, a bulbul taunting the kite by sitting on the tree it dominates and singing the loudest song it can, many, many others. Some, I knew, and quite a few I did not. Saw the two neighbourhood cats jumping about. Thought to finally get up off the chair for good and start the day so as to continue being a person, to join the bustle of the traffic that had begun echoing about the city. I reckon as far as they are concerned, it has been much time wasted.

Looking at the hues of brown in a cup of coffee as I sip it will do only as much good as would sitting to truly think about my place in the world. Both have their benefits but like all good prescriptions ought to include a regimen of walking no matter the medicine, intentionality must also be prescribed to urge people to think before all else. But so few of us think for it is not beneficial; it is unproductive and thus is not taught in schools or by the world.

To think is to follow the possibilities along. If this were to happen, what else could happen, and if that does happen, where shall it all lead? It is truly the most exhausting thing. I suggest you try it. You will see then why I tell others I am tired, and why that is always the case, and why I sleep so much when given the chance.

The deliberation I must conduct with painstaking accuracy every day knocks the wind out of me, not to mention pretending to be a person who works for a living along with it. It is not easy. It is the most exhausting thing.

There is a tiny cocoon on one of the leaves I so recently introduced here. It is a lichen moth's cocoon and it makes me think how wonderful this world is, for it keeps us on our toes, bewildered in awe and agony alike. The perfectly woven basket around the pupa is so intricate and yet so natural that you would not think twice if you were to just catch a glance and miss it thereafter. But glances are, of course, wasteful uses of the eye. We must learn to look. To stop and look at the moment in front of us.

On this nice, early spring afternoon, the breeze reminds me again of how fleeting it is: the plants all dance to its rhythm in graceful motion and then, with the breeze leaving, they stop. We have the same fate. We have the same transition. From exhilarating movement to drop-dead inaction, and for us too, it simply depends on the tailwind of time. It flows today. It ceases tomorrow. And we get to dance a little in the midst of it all. How incredible it is to be alive.

Perhaps, that is all we need. To break away from tradition in all things, and then, make smaller traditions, smaller rituals. I reckon that may be the answer we are looking at. An activity, absurd as it may be, which makes sense to a group of friends perhaps, far outweighs the cultural significance of a whole culture itself. Perhaps, that is what we ought to teach those who come after. Do not let traditions cross streets. Do not let them take over cities. Do not, at any given point, say, "This is how it has always been done." And maybe that will solve everything.

Perhaps, it will. Perhaps, people will find more things to be proud of. And now, suddenly, I am faced with a flaw in my reasoning today. It is not culture but the pride of having it. And I must conclude, it is pride, then, that is the problem.

But what can we do about that now? People have always been proud of far too little. We have been so proud, we have scarred the world simply in the name of making a mark.

Either way, I sit here and write, and I think to myself, how this is the most exhilarating time of the year. The cold is slowly being pushed away by the presence of an incredible warmth. February is slowly turning into March, and I am still here. It is always something to think about: that we are still here. The further I go in life, the more I see it unfold, the more this is hammered into me: that I am still here is not a given, that if I am here tomorrow, it is all that matters, and that one day, without my permission, tomorrow will not unfold for me. I believe people think talk like this is morbid but I simply could not be more ecstatic. Today, when I eat, when I drink from a cup of coffee, I will celebrate the mess that I call life. For, it is here and it is now, and I will never sit and write again like I have today, and when I do it tomorrow it will be similar but not quite like this moment. Every moment only happens once in our lives. Nothing repeats itself, and all the happiness that does come, comes in different flavours. Today's happiness and tomorrow's happiness will feel the same but will be very different.

That is how things stand when you are a person. Although, the further this world goes in its rush for technology–not that I possess any Luddite tendencies–the less it is clear what being a person is, or if we are even required. Perhaps, at some point, we will all have no choice but to grow our food again and sit and think all day long. Or perhaps, a dystopia is incoming, or maybe it is already here and just like you cannot sense how tall a child has grown if you see them every day, we cannot sense how the world is already in such unbecoming turmoil. Perhaps, it is that and if you were to yank a person from their life from a hundred years ago and throw them into today, like a far off aunt who visits for the holidays, they will be able to sense the difference.

All that said, today is still today, and the dystopia has not fully made its stand yet. At least, not here.

And, while I called them marginalia for a little bit, these bookmarks are a result of the same doggedness. "I will go on and not stop to think why" is such blatant defiance. Granted, I have gone away and come back to them but that I tend to come back to this practice is an absurdity in its own way. To keep coming back to the frustrating headache of the blank page. To spend a significant chunk of your life looking at a sentence and thinking a million ways to re-write it. Then, going there and back again, and eventually sitting with the construction you had in the first place, awkward as it may be. What an interesting life it has been, though. I would not have it any other way. I would not have myself another way. I thank all random chance that makes us whoever we are, nature or nurture alike, that I am who I am albeit the fact that I am quite a pain for those in my life is not lost on me. Perhaps, them, I am most grateful for. To be a certain way, to have tiny oddities or eccentricities is one thing but to have people who accept, and if not accept, then, at least, tolerate them is the biggest blessing one could receive. And I have.

How grand!

I am surrounded by leaves, soil and the occasional earthworm who has wiggled its way from the nursery to here, as I watch the tiles turn browner than they actually are. I sit here cutting open the planting bag off this Aglaonema while the Palms seem more towering than they are, and the Monsteras appear to be literal monsters with their high-maintenance supports and flimsy tendencies. I have failed to negotiate any peace with these Peace Lilies, and the China Dolls are no dolls. The Money Plant has cost me more than it will ever make me, and I am not sold on these Selloums. All in all, there is nothing better I ought to be doing at four in the night—or the morning; I cannot tell anymore. The birds are chirping outside, and I shall be done soon. Hopefully. Perhaps, I can clean tomorrow.

On second thought, I will clean tonight, and take a hot, scalding shower to wash the soil and the fatigue out completely. Yes, I believe all will be fine then. And oh, how beautiful and glorious everything will look when I am done. The very frustrations that we carry make us all the more human, I reckon. Well, at least, I can carry this thought with me to last through the night, and then, it will be the morning. And everything is eventually fine in the morning.