journal.coffee

Lately, I have thought about love more than I should have. I have woken up with it waiting on the bedside table. I have slept with it waiting there still. No, not love itself, but the thought of it, and through the day, I have had it torture me in the most subtle but most infuriating of ways. But where was this thought for all these years? I do not know. Perhaps I had my heart hidden in some drawer in a cupboard I did not have the key to, and now, now that it is out in the open, I have begun to realise how an idea that evoked hope, evoked all sorts of joy in me once is now but a remnant of utter disillusionment. There is no reason for this except the general apathy that sets within the hearts of the downtrodden, not that it curbs their want for riches, like it has not curbed my want for love, but the apathy for riches exists in some sort of absurd contradiction. It seems it is now present in me, too, for all of us are beggars for one thing or another.

This situation is not for the lack of complete surrender on my part. I have, time and again, bared my soul in front of a person, hoping for something I cannot put into words. Acceptance, perhaps, but I could not be too sure about it. For all my want for love, I do not know how I want it or for whom, and like a duckling that imprints onto the first person it sees, I, too, tend to follow people around with unmatched loyalty. They say when something falls, we must not try to look at it but hear it, that if we want any chance of finding it, we must close our eyes and let our instincts pinpoint it with supreme accuracy. They say we were built this way. But what does one do when hope falls and sinks? I have been standing in a silent room with my eyes closed for years. The complications of modern love have embittered me, and then, saying that I realise, what is modern love? It has been this way for as long as people have been this way. Some of us carry streaks of near-misses on our sleeves, and we laugh at parties and make jokes about it all, and then we come home, and we sit with our eyes closed, listening still, to find what has been lost to the years.

If my only qualm from life is that I am not easily understood, it is simply because I have done everything in my power to not be understandable. I can throw the blame around, but eventually, all fingers point at me in blatant accusation. I will be understood, as I have, more in my absence than my presence, which has always been, and shall continue to be filled with contradictions. My obsession with doing everything, with being everything I can, is so entrenched within all of me that by just being fully myself, I exclude myself, and if I want to sit in a place, I must do it in parts, crossing out a trait here, striking out a habit there, and only with this can I be among the others. And no, this is not some virtue, but I reckon this is gross limitation. And tonight, this is not washed over me. So, I must wash it down with a glass of wine or two.

How wonderful it would have been had I not had this urge in me, this urge that tells me to step aside and stand apart, and how synchronous should it have been as my only desire is to meld into the crowd, to merge into it and to not be a discernible thorn, a reluctant beacon, a poster-child of discord. But my very mindset, my very way of thought, and my life betrays my greatest desire. And I can but sit and think about it, and mull over it, and sometimes, cry over it. With a heavy heart, I must declare tonight that the person who claimed we are our worst enemies had no business making as astute an observation. And, of course, now the wine has set in, and my heart feels a little lighter; it is light enough to sleep, I reckon, and to begin again. The dishes are done, the people are met, the work is completed, and the words are written. What else is there to do? I ask myself this every evening right before I sleep. No answer. No answer at all. I do not know what else makes a person whole? Like a burgeoning green garden in the middle of March, I am complete, yet something remains. Only I have gotten used to this never-ending unease, this ever-present emptiness. To chalk it up to love would be a crime, to blame rusty regrets would be a fallacy, and to posit error would be plain wrong. Yet, the feeling remains. What can you do?

The revolving door of women in my life should indicate success in matters of love, but when I woke up today after dreaming about one of them, I was distraught at first and mildly irritated later. It did not help that the room was moist, hot, and filled with pulsating warm air. It only got hotter from then on, and I kept thinking about the list of mundane nothingness, settling for answers without forming a proper question. I did my job and attended meetings where many people said nothing about nothing. And now, I am back to where I was: the corner I sleep on in the bed. This whole day has been one of an impossible longing.

No matter how I look at it or phrase it, love eludes me. It comes at the wrong time, or it knocks and leaves before I have a chance to open the door, and often, it sits silently for too long and only when I get up to go out the door does it call my name, but the words get lost amidst the loud bustle of life outside the cafe, and swoosh out the door like a piece of paper caught in a draft. It comes in sly sweet nothings I know not to entertain and finds a way to get under my skin anyway, and then, like a fever you do not know the cause of, it takes its sweet time to go, and even when the temperature comes down, the sniffles and the lethargy leave like unexpected guests, and when I crawl out of bed and feel like a person again, I meet another, down the street or at a party or in some yard in some event, and that, too, is a little too early or a little too late. Of course, I learn this much later, and then, I have a secondhand regret over a life, the existence of which I did not know until I learn about it with a coy remark about how I did not catch their drift, or how it would have been different had I said something different.

I reckon the universe can only help you so much. It can lead you to the counter carrying the winning lottery ticket. The ticket sits on the counter. You pause to buy gum. There goes it, there goes your chance, there goes the love of your life because you paused someplace, not out of hesitation, but because you’re so very human. You bend to tie your shoelaces. Someone else cuts the line. There it goes, there it all goes.

In a society where everyone is too sure, too certain of the noun they plaster on their forehead, rebellion works a tad differently. Gone are the days when you had to be a social outcast to be a rebel. Rebellion today is grey. It is getting your haircut on time, wearing ironed clothes, and being on time. It is not the juvenile adolescent outcry of being out of step with the world; it is becoming a part of the world in the fullest, most complete, most whole sense of the word. To be a rebel today is to keep a mind so open that you entertain everything, to not have a preference for activities, for what you consume, for art or music or film. The fundamental remains the same: to not be boxed in. But today, mere side-stepping the box does not a rebellion make; today, you must be larger than any boxes they can put you in. Rebellion is overflow. It is grandiosity. It is being larger than any boundary they can put on you. It is rejecting all labels for they are too small and too limited to capture you. But it is not just ideation; it is hard work. To belong with everyone is not an easy undertaking, and it might take you an entire life of learning. Revolt today is this very commitment. I shall not be boxed in, and I shall not stop learning. Rebellion today is caring. Antics can only take you as far as they can, but true rebellion is about giving a damn in a world of apathy, of lukewarm interest or disinterest outright, of keeping to your own.

And this quiet revolution has begun already. There are some of us who carry the torch. We see each other occasionally, but we do not call each other out. We quietly acknowledge our existence, and we quietly agree to keep going. We welcome you, if you may join us, and all we ask is for you to be nothing but everything. That is the only entry fee to this club of people who fit nowhere and everywhere. That is all it takes. It is the easiest thing to give for many, but for most, it is the most challenging thing they will do.

Out of all moments during a week, I believe the beginning of Saturday, and not specifically the mornings, but the time I spend idling about in the first half of the day is what I most look forward to. No day is as distinctly split into two as a Saturday. You wake up with an unmatched relaxation in your heart, and then, you slowly get into the groove of being a person. Then, you get some of the time you gave away to the world during the week back—nothing much, no windfall, just a few hours at best, but that is all we need. And what do I mean by giving the hours away? It is the little contracts we live our lives around: of work, of friendships and family, of love, of society. Every contract requires a little time, and some things require more than you are readily able to give, but then, you draw the short straw and oblige regardless. I reckon that is all it takes to be a person: to give time to everything big or small, like how the rain waters a garden and does not choose sides, or prefer a flower or a tree, like how all fuel stokes all fire and grows it and makes it bolder, like how any amount of change you can spare is worth sparing when someone asks for it. But then, this effervescent time, this window arrives, and I reckon, is often missed if you do not look for it, so I urge you to seek it, to find it and grab it. It is the reprieve we need. It is when I am at my happiest, and if happiest is too strong a word, then I am at my lightest, and no obligation pulls my strings. Perhaps it may not be the same day for everyone, but all this is to say that it does exist—a temporary rending of all fine print you did not read before signing the forms.

And now, as the clock gets on with what it does best, it is closing time. And this bar with no name, this temporal third place, this corner among corners shall now shut itself off for another week. I must pay the bill with these words. And I must get off this chair now. I must honour the terms and conditions of being a person, and visit people, and places. It is, after all, the least we can do. How awful would paradise be if it were the only thing you knew?

It is a muggy day. I woke up in sweats, and at first, I thought something was wrong with me, that I had gotten sick, or worse, I was in love, but then I peeked out the gap between the curtains and realised it was just the sun. Then, I noticed a squirrel desperately clinging to the pipes, and the excitement of a tolerable rodent on the balcony got me out of bed. Were it a rat, I would have flung the door open and driven it away, but since it was a squirrel, I kept watching it till it left. It is funny how our response to things is dictated by their call to aesthetics. Then, I made some coffee; the sun had warmed the hall like an oven.

When I sat to write, I realised it would be a comfortable day despite the list of tasks, which was long and sinuous, like the most challenging mountain roads, not that I would know much about it. I have only driven in training, and until I get a car, the learning seems moot. But I have always been one to learn things without use for them. Rarely do I get an opportunity to share what I know about art or sociology, or all the economics I have read to tickle my curiosity, and the plethora of other disciplines I have dipped my finger like a mesmerised child who cannot resist the allure of an open jar—of jam, of honey, of paint. But it does inform my life, all that learning, I suppose. I read like reading was done before it was done for something.

One could say my life lacks purpose. Like the squirrel who happened to wander onto the balcony, I, too, tend to wander to and from people, leaving pieces of my heart like a forgetful rodent would leave its stash. I wander from jobs and lives I have made for myself, not because I am severely unhappy, barring a few instances, which is natural; I do this because it is in my nature. Just as a squirrel’s nature is to be accepted in the world of people, and a rat’s purpose is to be rushed out of sight, I suppose this is how I present to other people. I believe they can sense the impermanence of my heart before I do; as soon as I walk into the room, they know I am not one to stay.

This would explain everything. It is funny how our response to other people is dictated by how they make us feel.

Oh, how I have missed the thump of my feet on grass, all my focus on the game, the ball, the rules. Nothing weighs on your mind on the field. For about ninety minutes, the only sound that matters is the beating of your heart. There is an unimaginable disconnect between the real world and you as you skid and stumble and graze your feet. I only learned it much later in life, of course, the importance of that hour and a half, but that carries no weight over how things have changed over these years. And, of course, to laugh at the ridiculous misses, the absolute fumbles everyone makes. In a casual midweek game, everything is allowed. For a little while, you are not reprimanded or blamed, and all anyone tells you is that you did something well, that you tried well. The permanent scrutiny of life is left at home or in a backpack with your other clothes—the ones you wear when you are out and about in life. Last night, under the glow of white halogens and on top of the green turf, I was the most alive I have been, and god, I have been alive in this life, its eventfulness, its ever-present demands and problems from me.

To know your body’s limits do not stop at the ninety-minute mark, to feel the exhaustion seep in like the sweat does onto your shirt, to feel the ache in your legs, and to know you can still do this all day, to know that you can run for all the seconds left in a day, to know that you can keep going as long as it is required, to know that you can be on time when necessary, to know that you can take a blow when it comes your way, to know that you can slip, fall and get up like it were the easiest thing in the world, to know all this and more, and, which is more, to come home with all that in your heart as it pumps blood to every corner of your body, to every last edge, to every crevice, and to feel the surge of it all—what a wonderful, wonderful thing it is to experience. And then, the cold shower, each drop felt precisely as it trickles over you, and then, the rewarding, effortless sleep as you instantly lose yourself in it, and then, waking up to the first light and beginning anew.

Nothing did ever get any better than this.

When talking of ethical dilemmas, they often put forth the trolley problem. If you are not familiar with it, you must choose to kill a few to save the many or the other way round; of course, there is no right answer. I argue it is not even the right problem. It is not something we face on the day to day, and most people would never find themselves in the situation or the power to make such grand and vexing decisions. An accurate alternative to it would be this: You are the train—and if anthropomorphism feels a tad too much—you are the driver. The train is running headfirst into a wall. You do not know why the track ends in a wall, but you must, in the split-second it takes for you to run into it, make your peace with this unfortunate circumstance. If you have to do something, you may try to pull the brakes. And no, the brakes are not shot. They work perfectly well. It is possible for you to stop the train—and if you are the train and not the driver, then yourself—and avoid this collision course. Why, then, can you not stop?

This is a more relatable dilemma, and I believe many of us will understand this far better. Most lives are spent in impossible situations, sloping into rather unfortunate results, and we rush into them like the train running into a wall. We know this will derail everything. It is, in fact, the only thing that can happen. Yet, it does not occur to us to pull the brakes, and even if it does, it seldom is as easy. It is simple. But simple things are not always easy. And there are many explanations and answers to this; I am aware and quite certain of it. Perhaps the more sacrificial of us would argue it may be why the journey began in the first place, that there was nothing wrong with the situation, that there was some grand plan, and that the train running into the wall is a part of it. The rational would argue the plan is flawed. The nihilistic would not see the point in making the decision at all. The helpless and the unsure would not know if they could pull the brakes at all, or if they could do it right and, thus, would be paralysed.

And those like me will find beauty in the destruction and the debris; we will write ballads about it.

In the morning, I sat on the couch and stared at nothing, taking in the whistles of the birdsong from outside. It was quiet and bright, and I began to think of where I was three or four years ago, how lost, how uncomfortable, how all parts of me were utterly out of synch. If you asked me to write you a prescription for calming the waters, I would have nothing to write on it, and yet, I have written everything I can about it all in these breadcrumbs I drop every day. Regardless of how much you know someone, all you do is drop crumbs in conversations. A friend, before they fully bare their heart in front of you on a well-set table spread with toast and juice and pancakes, will often just say a bit here and a bit there. It is usually nothing specific or anything explicit, but most of what they tell you when they do will have already been said. Perhaps when we say, “You should have told me sooner,” all we mean is, “I am sorry.”

Leaving that morbid tangent of thought aside on this beautiful morning and leaving it in the past where it belongs, I shall now come back to this moment. I do not know what brought about this ever-present lightness in my heart, that most things happen and blow over, that I find this absurd resilience in me. Now, it is natural to have your soul shaken off here and there. Things happen, and not all specks of dust settle equally quickly, but it does settle, and sometimes, it takes a week and, often, a day or two. And then, I find myself on the couch with a cup of coffee in my hands, ready and primed to start the day. I wonder if everyone becomes this steadfast, this immovable as they grow older, and to think of myself as something out of the ordinary is a mistake I dare not commit, so I will keep this note short and find a few minutes to sit quietly as the music continues to play and the sun continues to dance minute by minute, taking more and more of this hall under itself. I believe all the certainty I wanted a few years ago, I have given myself. That much, I am sure of.

I believe I have forgotten the simplest thing in the world; I have forgotten to confess. Perhaps it was the impossibility, the mountains I scaled for years on end, or the touch-and-go of modern love that let me down—the meeting and forgetting, and meeting and forgetting, and meeting and forgetting. Perhaps it was that and nothing else. Or maybe it was being told often how I did it wrong, or poorly, that there was a right and correct way to tell someone you loved them. Maybe it was that, and now, like a child who is reprimanded for who they are turns to a quiet corner and grows into a quiet adult, like that, my silence is learned. So much I keep to myself—to think all the things I never tell others, to think all the times I have looked at someone wanting to say the three words, which, in what seems like a different life, came so easily to me, and keeping mum, uttering no semblance of speech, to think of all the missed moments, to think of all the missed chances, to think of the eager eyes on me, looking within me as if they were saying yes before I asked a question, and the eyes that begged me, “Say it, say it, what is stopping you? Why would you not say it? This is the only chance we have. If you do not say it now, we may never get another chance,” and me looking away and looking for a way to leave the room.

Yes, my heart was broken once, but lately, and by lately, I mean as far as memory would take me, I have broken it myself. I have suffocated it under a pillow. I have stabbed it in the dark. I have thrown it like you throw some absurd piece of decoration you got from overseas during an argument. I have dropped it like a bottle of wine you knock down when you are too drunk. I have starved it in a cage and acted surprised like a jailer that the prisoner did not live through the night. I have forbidden it from speaking, and is that not the same as dying? I have broken my own heart, and I have done it correctly. I have done it as they taught me. I have kept it all to myself. My heart has withered like a rose never watered. A petal or two remain, perhaps. But I wonder, at what point does a flower stop looking like one? Your guess is as good as mine.

Often, people climb mountains only so someone worries and waits for them, and many voyages are made not for the wealth or the gold but for a packed lunch to take along. We all crave care, and you will find that the most important question a person can ask another on most days is, “Did you eat?” Or “Did you sleep alright?”

What is a person, if not someone other people check in on? What is being alive if not being asked to take care, to call or text when you reach, to be told you ought to ask for help? What is living is not being continuously interrupted with love? What is any of it, if not the perpetual and sometimes irritating involvement of other people, of them poking and prodding? What is any of it if not being thought of? To be a person is to be in another person’s mind—sometimes for a second and, often, for a lifetime.

Perhaps the worst feeling in the world is not a brutal heartache. Perhaps it is not having anyone to tell it to. There are far many terrible things waiting around the corner, like a predator hunting prey, but the most terrible thing, I reckon, is if they do happen, if the worst does come to pass, and no one knows about it. And the greatest blessing is not some absurd protection from it all, and it is undoubtedly not a seat in paradise where all things are bright and beautiful. Instead, it is to be thought of, to be called into, to be included and involved, and to be annoyed into belonging.

Tonight, there is little on my mind, and most of it carries no significance. The only part that does is this: I am alive because I am thought of.

On a lovely Saturday morning, I slept in, woke up, and decided to stay in bed listening to music. I had my coffee in bed. And then, I had another cup in bed still. I read a little—a few articles, a letter, and a poem. That is all I did all morning; of course, I replied to a few messages here and there. And then, I reckon it was time to begin the day. At some point, we must all start. That much is true. And until then, nothing was real. Nothing ever is real till you’re not out of bed. We are only people in the waking world. We are only real when we are out and about and walking and making jokes. I would know. I have realised that in many situations, the only thing in my purview is making an ill-timed joke and that I cannot physically resist a terrible pun that has made its way to my mind is both a blessing and a curse and brings about wildly varying results with a wide variety of subjects and situations. But regardless, I began the day and became a person, got a haircut, had conversations here and there, and made small talk with the building guard who barely understands a word but does his job well, and then, I watched some TV and ate a little bit, and before I knew it, the lovely morning had turned into a delightful afternoon. And then, I made some calls about things that needed fixing, and on each call, I held the phone for as long as they kept me holding, and annoying as it was, I did not give grief to the person trying to help me. To my surprise, most things were fixed or resolved. It is a Saturday. We only get this day to get all the frivolities done. It is now slowly inching towards the evening. I have spent an hour lazing about, suspended in the limbo of asleep and awake. It has been most pleasurable and greatly rejuvenating. I wish I could have stayed in bed a little longer today. But then, once you get out, and until you get in, fully committing to sleep at night, you are, for all intents and purposes, a person. And as a person, I cannot simply call it a day in the evening. We must go to the town and celebrate a friend’s revolution around the sun. That is what people do, I reckon, and for a few hours, about six or seven more of them, I must do it, too.

I must preserve my mind. It is crucial. I must preserve my mind before the thoughts of every day, of troubles big and small, of “work”, trickle into it like viruses into a bloodstream. They multiply like viruses do—rapidly, violently, ruthlessly. The sheer apathy the world and its numerous abstractions have for our more noble pursuits stirs me uncomfortable and leaves me dizzy. Before you know it, the tepid, irrelevant matters multiply and cause a sudden sickening of the mind, and you do not get a chance; it is too late on most days. By the time you realise something is wrong, you are coughing up flimflam; it takes hold of you, and nothing can be done about it until a good night’s sleep.

There is a diet and a regimen for life that can, at least, hold this all at bay until you get some work done, and work here is a greater pursuit. I forget to make this distinction often, and it is an important one to make: the only activities that truly matter are things that make life bearable for us or others. Carrying bread to a friend carries greater significance than making a million dollars. Walking on grass will always be more vital than never-ending paperwork. And I do not mean to suggest, for people often read ideas as dichotomies, that the latter is unimportant. Most things are worth doing, and anything worth doing is essential. But there always is something more important than others. We must learn to spot the difference. We must learn to find Waldo. It is all there is to living.

Between writing a poem and writing a few lines of computer code, between sitting to read with a warm cup of tea and reading a report financed by a lobby chasing a monopoly and a bottom line, between calling someone to check in on them and cold calling a potential customer, between all of these and more, one is more important than the other. We know it already. We, you and I, know this so well that we jump onto making excuses as we read the words. And so I am sure of your reasons, and I am confident you have already listed many, and the ifs and the buts are plenty. But to that, all I can say is:

Tell me, dear reader, who are you trying to convince so desperately?

The sun blares through the kitchen window, warm, almost burning, and in the soft comfort of having woken up just five minutes ago and being kissed by the sun, I make my coffee. I plunge the French press filter and pour the coffee into a cup. Then, out of nowhere, like a bird with no place to sit on this tiny balcony, a thought arose, and since I only think about nine or ten things in total, this one was about the usually beaten horse: writing. Specifically, it was about how, compared to the other forms of art, writers do not do much.

What do writers do? They just stare at a page. But that something requires no effort to get into has no bearing on the effort it requires to stay in it.

What do writers do? I wager they keep writing. That is all they do. But it is far more difficult and irritating than one could imagine. Many can write—this is true now more than ever—but to do it for more than a couple of days is crucial. It is different for writers. Many write their lives away and never get a word read. Many write a few poems, and people go gaga over them. Music works differently—do not get me wrong, I do not mean it works easily—where a person can do ten songs and not make any for a decade. Even if they do this, they will be called a musician. Their vocation is in their ability to play an instrument or sing or perform. But a writer is only a writer till they are writing. If I were to stop what I do tomorrow, if I stopped writing altogether, even for a week, they would say: he does not write now; he was a writer. It is different; we must stay submerged, torn, always living, always watching, always sitting to write. It is not always easy, not when your soul rebels like a disgruntled worker, not when your heart beats out of step, not when your mind and body bicker like siblings of about the same age, one or two years removed. It is hard on most days, and on some, it is harder.

That something requires no effort to get into has no bearing on what it takes to stick to it. This is true for love, and this is true for writing. Perhaps that is why they claim writers make for excellent lovers. But what would I know about love? I only know to sit and wait.

It did not occur to me until this morning that February will be longer this year. This fact would not have escaped me if I were still a child; I would have been aware and cognisant of this being a leap year on the very first of January. It is, of course, different when you are a child. When childhood is over, however, the days mix into a silky, velvety batter made from the finest of ingredients known to man. An extra day does not seem extraordinary enough to remember, and we only remember it in contexts that are perverse, like a meeting or a deadline, things that, if I may be so blunt, will never matter in the long scheme of things, things that do not matter at all. But a full day, a whole day, is a blessing no matter how you turn it, no matter what light you examine it under.

And yet, what good is an additional day if you cannot use it for breathing and being? I believe the French had it right when they proposed a new calendar which ensured all months were equal, and to account for all the days they took from our dear Januarys and Augusts and their brothers and friends, proposed a new month and a free day at the end. I reckon that would have made sense to those like me, those who work only to be able to write in the morning. I reckon that would have been a wonderful way to end the year. Of course, convincing the entire world of something is not as easy, so we have continued with our twelve months with three hundred and sixty-five and a quarter. But then, what we get is what we get, and if an additional day in February every four years is what’s in the kitty, then we should take it graciously, too, even if the day feels as if it were one out of many, one out of a long series of days to live through. Not that it is a bad thing. This is in no way a complaint over the days I have had or my days in general. I could never complain about this life. I have lost the rights to ever be able to do that. I lost them a long time ago.

Regardless, tomorrow is tomorrow’s concern. Today remains to be lived, and I must get on it now. I believe I made the leap a wee bit earlier than most this year, but then, there has always been impatience in my patience.

In life, all of joy, laughter, care, and some of their friends are present and seldom noticed before they are nowhere to be found. We must keep a low bar for things like humour. We must not make it a challenge. We must not think of our laughter as a reward. The good things are affordable by all, and often, you will find that it is people who put a markup on things and refuse to take them at face value. Those who criticise a joke and sit there with proud faces often need to laugh the most. And you will find if you have spent enough years here, and enough amounts to a dozen or two, that it is easier to smile than not. This is true, and everyone knows it deep inside; only some take it like they take a joke, at face value, quickly and immediately. We must all aspire to be like them. All things in life, including people, yes, should be taken like that. And most is not all. I know this, and you should be aware of it, too. But most is good enough.

Most jokes are funny. Most people are good. Most books are written well. Most music is worth listening to. Most films are worth watching. Most. Most. Most. Hammer it into your heart! We must keep our eyes peeled towards it. Not just things, not just people, we must take the world at face value. On most days, most is what the world can feasibly offer. We must accept it graciously. We must bow and take it. We must not let the few dictate what we think about things. There is no benefit to being finicky and nitpicking. There is no benefit to any of it. Why look for more when most of it is beautiful, bright, and awe-inspiring? Why look for more when most love is handed to you in a neat package? It makes no sense to look further. It is illogical, preposterous, and a terrible waste of time. Time, which could be used for experiencing more of what we get. Time, which could be used to laugh a little bit more.

Most days are good because nothing happens in them. Nothing noteworthy, nothing extraordinary. Ordinary is good because we do not know; we cannot know where the extra sways until it does. Most days are good, and some not so much. We must leave the latter where we find them.

I lie on the couch. The lights are out in the hall, but the orange glow from the lamp from the bedroom manages to find its way to it, almost how a child tiptoes to a door and halts right before entering. For the first in the last two or three days, I find my heart and mind at rest, which feels foreign and undeserved. Perhaps it is the nap I took in the afternoon. Maybe it is the rebellion—not the nap in itself but what it represents, but I have beaten that metaphor to death in older pieces, so the specifics are not my concern.

In this state of statelessness, I watch reruns of a show I last watched a decade ago, and some part of it reminds me of who I was ten years ago, and it also points out the many ways I have become who I have become. And what have I become? I do not know. Flawed, I wonder. At least, that is one of the first words that often comes to mind when someone asks me about myself. Now, I realise it is not a good look on anyone to claim a negative adjective for their own self lest people tell them to think of themselves in a more positive light, and often, if they are altruistic enough, they hand you the adjectives on a platter. To avoid this unsolicited help, I often skip and hop over until I get to hope, to optimism, to the faux boldness with which I seemingly carry myself.

On most days, however, it is a character I play. And we all play a character; only I am willing to admit it. And mind you, it is a performance so believable on most days, even I get convinced of all the hope I present outwardly to the world, to friends and family and acquaintances and strangers alike. But often, I lose it, too, you see, and I retreat to a desk in some dingy corner of my mind. And though the desk has windows beside it, the curtains are all tattered, and though there is light, all it does is illuminate the dust floating about it. And the dust gathers, and I find no motivation to wipe it off. But I can write there, and I can write for days, months even, and I have before. It has happened before; I have written myself out of the proverbial room.

Until last week, I did not imagine I would find myself there again. But I did, and I have, and now, I sit here, writing. I do not know for how long.

Wanted to write earlier today, but I was busy repairing a few things at home, doing laundry and then hanging it out to dry, vacuuming the flat, all so I could leave for brunch on time. And then, in the sunny cafe with a garden trail, we had our food and talked a little bit. This aspect of found family, of coming across people in life, and somehow sticking for and with them beyond the years, and leaving, of course, when you have to, but then, coming across them once again baffles and intrigues me in equal parts. I look around at how quickly, how instantaneously I have felt at home and, for the lack of a better word, how safe it has made me feel. And I thought of this talking over brunch, laughing, and then, I thought of it for the rest of the day and the evening, while having dinner, while playing cards, while walking around the township, especially over the grass patches with the little signs telling us to not do so, that the grass was forbidden. I do not understand it, of course. What else is grass good for? But regardless, there is nothing more pleasurable than a mild rebellion with your friends you partake in with frictionless enthusiasm.

And wanted to write later today, but I was on the phone with someone I had not talked to in months, and despite our clocks showing different times, it was not important enough a concern for me. Before I knew it, three hours had gone by. Despite the different times on the clocks still, we could not have felt any closer, and the echo of the laughter still remains fresh in my mind, even though the apartment has fallen silent and remains anxious to end the day. Of course, I could have written before the brunch, after dinner, in the little moment I had in the evening, or the few before I dialled the number. Of course, I could have cut the call short, and of course, I could have done things differently, but if I were honest, this effervescence of increased activity in my life has left little attention to spare for other things, writing most of all.

For the first time in a long time, these words have taken a back seat. I could not tell you if this is good or the worst thing in the world yet, but there is no shred of guilt in me.

Woke up unfathomably late, and on any other day, I would be ashamed of myself if I woke up at an hour when the world and the day have both passed me by, but today is an exception. It is an exception for I needed the rest, and that it had been an ordeal to be awake with two hours of shut-eye. Of course, when activity thrives in life, all kinds land on your plate, and sometimes, things happen to you in the middle of the night you would not expect to, and if you come out unscathed, albeit shaken and fazed, and a little light on the pockets, it is an acceptable outcome.

The specifics do not matter; they rarely matter. The blurrier the memory, the easier it is to gloss it over like an old canvas where the paint has melded together, where the painting that once was matters little, and the only correct course of action is to paint over it and paint anew. But, of course, for the while we can see the painting, we can be open to make a few jokes, to laugh at the terrible image that now lies in front of us. A little humour goes a long way, and we must, in one way or another, laugh at the ridiculousness of it—of the ambiguity of strokes on the canvas, of the days and nights you cannot fully recall, of the parts of life that are not as pretty enough to try and remember. I reckon that is how I have looked at things; it has worked thus far and has worked quite well.

And what will I do now that I am awake and I have written? I will maybe call a friend and talk about all things under the sun. Perhaps, get some work done. Maybe fold some laundry and continue the endless continuity of normalcy. To remind ourselves that for all the albeit, somewhat unordinary things that happen to us, most of life flows smoothly from one day to the next. The world changes, the floor moves beneath your feet, your faith in people shivers a bit, and then, you sit in an afternoon and fold laundry, and then, you stand at the kitchen sink doing the dishes.

At around twelve in the afternoon, I found myself on the couch and noticed how unimaginably bright the apartment was, and I realised that the sun had found its way inside from all corners possible, from the many windows, from the open balcony door, and blades of light, strokes and specks here and there were on all the walls. In this golden space of warmth all around, I realised there was little I wanted in life. I realised this once again, as I have time and again, and this happened only because I had forgotten it. We tend to forget this, of course; I am sure you agree and have felt it escape you, too, and I am sure you have been reminded of it by the softest of touches from life, like some sun, some rain, a little bit of pain, and I am sure you have obsessed over this, like I have been today.

And owing to this obsession, I have done little, and done but the bare minimum of what I do every day, and now, for all intents and purposes, the day is over since I have to head out, but for all that I did not do today, all that I pushed onto the shoulders of tomorrow, I sat for another minute in the sun. That is not a bad way to remember a day by. To me, that is of supreme importance: to take a moment. That is all we are here for, to take some space, to take a moment, to sit at a table and say something with profound conviction, to stand with our arms wide and our backs straight, to be proud and say:

I am here, and I am alive, and if I want to, I can sit here and bask in the sun, that much is a given, and no one can take it away from me.