journal.coffee

Lately, I have been reading a book about how longitudes were found, and it is not a long book by any measure, but it seems as fast as I can read in general, when I pick a book up, I pick it up for days and months even. And while poetry has had its heyday, and while prose has had its place, it has been a while since I have picked something so accurate, so factual, so real. Learning about how humanity overcame a glorious challenge is, of course, important, but the reason I have enjoyed this book is because of the many, and primarily loud, failures. I have enjoyed the intrigue, the depravity, the lowest of lows people can go to claim their name to fame, or simply to say that they were right, the sheer perseverance of an honest pursuit in the cannon fire of misdirects and lies. Stories, after all, follow life, and life happens without the coat of paint, without the masks of characters and metaphors. Sometimes, we must read that which really happened.

I wrote this and forgot about it, and when I reached the last page of this book, I happened to be in a plane, flying over more cities than I could ever count or name. I remembered it then, the passage I had left writing midway in the wake of something better, something more profound. But the thought, my awe at every convenience, little or large, is with me still, and it has inspired me. No, not to pursue some grand pursuit. At least, not yet.

These words I write each day are not grand. This discipline that wavers like deadwood floating on water, often diving under only to pop back up again owing to forces out of its control, is nothing remarkable. People live far more inspiring lives than I do, so I must keep an open mind for what comes my way. There are, of course, moments when life asks you to step up into greatness, but we can pass them by like we pass by the most mundane store in the neighbourhood, no name, no sign over it.

Everybody does it, but for a few of us, provided we keep an open mind, its austerity becomes a call to open its door and walk in. Now, I could not tell you why, but this life has begun to feel like a door closed for far too long. I might fling it open from the inside and see what happens.

To tell others how we truly feel, and then, to grant ourselves the same privilege is something I wish for all of us. To be honest in a way a child, who comes across as rude to a stranger, simply for their untouched, unmarred honesty. And to be as humble and calm as the understanding stranger, who does not bat an eye and often laughs and lets it go as the parents, if they are around, profusely apologise to them. To put it short, I wish innocence on all of us. But as I sit here, convoluted notions already crunching me, as they do all of us, like vines in some second-rate scary film, where the special effects are far too visible, far too apparent, but we ignore them. We suspend our disbelief, as they put it, and it seems we have done the same with our lives. I wish all of us would open our eyes now and then. At least, I am willing to try. I am eager to pour my heart out like you would pour paint on a blank canvas lying on the floor as you play around with colour, again, as children do. A lot of it has been left in bittersweet memories of summers that did not end and winters that were cosy beyond measure. A lot of it is simply left behind, like a book that falls behind the others, by itself. It is by no means unreachable, but until no one does inventory when the library is sold to an unnamed mogul or the sort, it is lost to time. Where is that book? Where is that sweater I wore when I was fifteen and January was too cold? Where is the allure of saying what truly comes to my mind? Where is the temerity, and why has it been tempered? All questions fit for a cold evening following an otherwise warm day. All without answers.

I reckon there are parts I can still change and fix. I reckon in this wish for innocence is masked a personal need, some vendetta against the world which I would admit if the world had not made me dishonest in how the cleverest of housecats are dishonest about the state of their hunger.

The world has taught me to never show all my cards. But this is getting exhausting. I might as well stake it all on the hand I have been dealt. I still have a few good years left in me before I dance to the tunes of the world. At least, I am willing to try.

Tonight, once again, I am writing from my bed under the bearable weight of the quilt, which is nothing in comparison to the desk by the window whose glass emanates a pulse of icy air, almost as if it were breathing.

Last night, I brought a book with me in bed and planned to read it when I was done writing, but then, as I wrapped the piece neatly and where I liked it, I lay down, and before I realised, it was morning and pigeons were colliding with the glass which was so frosted opaque by all the condensed air on it. I carry more energy tonight than the last, and I believe I will read a few pages. It is but a pleasure to read old dystopian novels, after all. You realise that the author was in their wildest imaginations coming up with some jarring ideas about the structure of the world, and then, you see how most of them have come to pass. You sit there appreciating the writer for the sheer measure of their genius while simultaneously crying a dry tear over the state of the times.

Today has been a rather uneventful day in that nothing special happened. Of course, what was planned was achieved, and nothing remains undone. I am forced to think of the critically high standard I have had for myself all these years. Thinking about this act of writing at this moment itself: how I have denied myself the pleasure of writing comfortably simply as a superlative pressure of doing everything the right way. But now, I sit here, having written more words than I ever imagined but not enough to summarise what it is I write in a single sentence, an elevator pitch to some stranger I met at a party who I will possibly never meet, or some washed out musician I met on the plane who would not shut up and let me watch the clouds drifting by. I sit here by myself with nothing to show for anything. If this was the final destination anyway, it could have been achieved without the added discomfort and faux discipline I put myself through.

Perhaps this monologue echoing in my head is just a lament of regret now that my life is genuinely uncomfortable—or beginning to be. How many days, I wonder, have I subjected myself to utter torment simply in the fear of becoming too comfortable?

After a long time, I am writing from the bed, under the warm and heavy quilt. I am too tired today to sit in the chair in the ominously cold room. While earlier today, I was still surrounded by potential, I have returned to the slowness of the city I call home. I have returned to the cold, the languid, and the comfortable once again. And this to and fro, I assume, will continue to happen for a good part of this year. I imagine I must prepare for it as one gets ready for the sudden onset of fortune and misfortune, only in the knowledge that they will happen at some point. Today, however, I am out of my wits to come up with more than a handful of sentences or a clever metaphor. I reckon the day has had me go from one corner of the country to another. I believe that is explanation enough.

And now, I lie here, waiting to fall asleep as the chilly air from outside seeps into this room from slits and holes where the glass doors close, slipping like lies from lips that appear closed. There is never a way to know it, of course, but all closed things have a tendency to let something in. If the last week has taught me anything, it is that for all my checks and balances, for all my rules, for all my nature to keep everyone at arm’s length, I, too, have let people in. What an impossible thing it is when you think about it—to belong to others—and we do it day after day, and then, one day, we look around, and all we see are people who call us one of them. To know that all over this world, there are people who sometimes think of me and who I think of now and then, too. It fills me with joy on this otherwise solitary evening. To think I was convinced once that I will be alone, that I will fend for myself for all of time!

Today, I can rest and be at ease. There are people in my life, and soon, there will be more. There is nothing more cosy than this; there could not be. I do not have to brave it alone.

What else is there? What else matters?

Nothing.

Started the day with nothing but hope, and not for something specific, but for life, for today, for the days to come. It is a new feeling in the sense that rain in a different city is new. You are, for all intents and purposes, familiar with the general idea—that water falls from the sky—but how it changes the city, how it changes the street, how it changes the people is different everywhere. That is, perhaps, how I would say this hope appears.

I have talked more in the last two days than I have in the past few months, and as I sat in a cafe and told a friend over the phone about the why and the what, it occurred to me that the reason I seek comfort inward that I even have the urge to do it is for a purpose, and that purpose is so I am alive and ready to talk to other people, that I am not staring into space, yawning and distracted, that I am interested, engaged and listening. We all rest, after all, to be active later. To rest for the sake of rest is as helpful as an umbrella inside a building. Once we have rested enough—like I have done for months, if not years—you must go out of your way to exhaustion, you must sprint to drudgery, you must seek days that begin in the AM and end there, too.

I feel invigorated by my fatigue—that I am already spent energises me. This is no irony. This is how it should be. There has been a dearth, a fallow of activity in my life, and now, it is here, and it is burgeoning. There is so much to do that I have not stopped to think about what I am supposed to be doing. Here, I am one of many. Here, I do not need convincing of my irrelevance in the larger world. Here, it is a placard shoved into my face, a megaphone screaming in my ears. This, too, is something all of us must experience.

I sit in a cafe and spend the entire morning working on things. Twenty other people sit at the other tables and do the same. I cannot describe how happy this makes me.

Did not write yesterday. Tried to, but was too busy at first, too tired after that, and too drunk in the end. This, too, is a thing I have missed—not having time. Sitting with a mild hangover in a cafe, I am forced to remember the flight from a night ago. I looked out the window and saw three clouds arranged contiguously, like pieces of farmland separated by fences. It was all I could think about for a good chunk of the journey. Then, I slept and woke up with the expected thud of the plane landing on the asphalt.

This moment, the one I am in currently, came faster than I thought it would. That is to say, I did not realise when a day passed. Yet, looking at yesterday, I cannot fathom the sheer amount of things I did. The blanket of uneventfulness has been lifted from my life, it seems, and I have not even spent a weekend here. Of course, everything comes with some sort of caveat, an asterisk that tells you to look for the fine print. Now, I have begun to read it, and I have realised that all places and all people have terms and conditions attached to them. Ultimately, the conditions you find favourable or tolerable make or break your time with people and places. There is always the choice to not read, to ignore the fine print altogether. But I am not one to not know what I am getting into, and it has its benefits, but also, it seems ignorance has its pleasures, too. At least, that is the impression I get when I look at other people.

In any case, I think I have ruffled the status quo now, and there is no returning to my old life. Even if I went back after a week only to return permanently, I would still have spent a week here. It would have changed me in ways I would not know. People change us, places do, too. Once you lift the veil, you cannot draw it back over your eyes. Once you set things in motion, you cannot bring them to a halt. For the first time in a long time, I feel uncertain, unsure. This is unnerving. It is also the only thing I need right now.

In life, there are often symmetries that happen without plan, without our control. These parallels inform us, and often, they make us laugh. When I first tried to live a quiet life in the quiet town I had grown up in, having found myself terribly exhausted by life in a larger city of dust for a few years prior, I failed terribly. This happened for many reasons, getting into the details of which would be tiresome, but I reckon it did fail, so I took the first job and flight out of the city, vowing never to return. I did return, and naive as I was, I do not blame myself for my audacious yet flimsy resolve then. A broken heart does a lot to a person, I believe, and we should not blame those who grieve the living. It is a difficult thing to do, after all. The years passed, and I woke one day when the world had all but reached a standstill. I realised I ought to rewind it all and try again. And so I came back, but only on a few statutory guidelines. They say all safety manuals are written in blood. Well, this one was written in tears. But it was written, and not adhering to it would have been reckless now that it was there.

It is time to leave again, of course, and it has made me smile since I woke up this morning, primed and ready. To say it is the same as the last time would be a lie. What has changed? Neither person nor circumstance is pushing me out. There is no vow. There is no promise. There is but grace and endless possibility. The door to my heart is wide open.

It seems I have been terribly blind. I have thrown blame like chump change. I have downplayed and diminished all the ways people have lifted me up in this life. It seems like how some dishevelled gambler knee-deep in debt talks with a sort of unfound bravado, I, too, have done the same. What I owe those around me, I will never be able to repay, and on this winter night early in January, I have realised this, and not just the night, but the day, the many moments I ignored earlier have lit up bright, as if a spotlight hung from a star far away in the purple sky shined on them. But now, I see this life for what it is—an overdrawn cheque, a loan I could never repay, a tab that has run for as long as I have walked. So many hands have pushed me forward, only for me to look back in disdain. But this, too, is an error. It is up to us what we do once we spot one. I shall try to be better. That is, after all, all one can do.

Through guilt that has sprouted with an onslaught in the middle of my heart, I have begun to be grateful, not for just a cup of coffee, not for this view, not for the life I had in this city for all this time, but for the people, for every single one of them. It has all started returning to me: the many favours I never thanked people for, their patience for taking my crass criticism head-on, without as much as a cross word. It seems I have been fast asleep with my eyes wide open. I am awake now, of course. And now, I see the aftermath of this state of limbo, of being too caught up in a web of my own design. No person can brave it alone—me least of all. All my confidence is borrowed. All my intelligence is stolen. All my patience is imitated. There is nothing in me I could claim as entirely my own. And all this time, I have not spent as much as a minute bowing in front of those who made me who I am. Today, of course, I lay my sword down, I lay my pen down. There is nothing else to feel but awe, yes, awe, for those who have looked at me and called me their own.

There is nothing else to feel but shy embarrassment: I have rejected all the warmth I was given on a platter only to howl in the night about being cold.

The day begins, and there is nothing to be tense about, so I lie in bed for a bit. Then, I stretch my arms before I walk to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. And then, nothing happens. I finish making the coffee and sit at the desk—like clockwork. Then, I am compelled to think of the security guards at the building who change shifts the same way each day, cracking the same jokes, I reckon, as they did yesterday. And the many commuters who work in large offices, shops and stores, and everywhere else. Before I know it, I am outside the moment at hand, doing, I reckon, a painstaking inventory of how people go around in circles, myself included, obviously. In another life, had my story gone differently than it has, I would have been a meticulous bookkeeper.

I note things as if my memory was as unreliable as a weather report, as fallible as a drunk’s testimony. It is here, too: in these words, in these pieces of my days. Every little thought I have had is here, and the thoughts not here are noted down to live another day. There are no exceptions to this because I note it all down, sometimes haphazardly, sometimes illegibly or in code, but I can always go back to my heart on a particular day. I can always come back to myself. And so, I sit here, every person I have ever been all rolled in one. My contradictions reach the surface like bubbles in a vat of acid. It would be a lie to say this was not a blatantly tiresome way to exist. I am jealous of those who forget, but I envy those who do not note things down more.

It is not just parts of myself but also things people left behind. Everyone we meet, everyone we get close to lends us something to carry forever, after all. Only some people forget things and do not note them down, so they live for the better. They forget what others gave them in old flats, between moving crates, among donations. And yes, I have tried to do it, too, but the records remain etched in my memory.

To cry over this would be some sort of gilded grief. All the good I have gotten, after all, is because I have remembered. It is just that all the things I wish to forget have remained, too.

I believe the first thing is looking. As long as you can see something, it exists. I look at the few birds who seem to have made a camp of the grass on my balcony and, in doing so, have made an absolute mess! The synthetic turf is now all but soiled and spoiled with the many instances of a bird having relieved itself. It is ridiculous—the amount of mess a little bit of comfort can create. This palace of one, and all the time spent in it these past three years—I see it all, and since I can see it, it has all happened. To say it has been a smooth journey would be a bit too liberal with life, but to claim it has been anything but a goddamn pleasure would be lying, too. All in all, I see these years for what they are: a slice of time.

In a rather lengthy letter sent to a friend last month, I dubbed these ‘the patio years’ after the many warm afternoons and evenings spent on the patio cafe at a ten-minute walk.

Time has acted on everything. The baristas are long gone, the selection of music has rotted, and the tables are always dusty, but I walked to it last evening. Night as it was, I felt the warmth of the several suns I had spent doing nothing there, and with it, the many walks I took under the bougainvillaeas, which sprouted and wilted as seasons changed. To think of it all, to look at these last months for what they are, has made me realise the change in my disposition, my want for yet another hour with my friends, my yearning for a handful of flawless days, my demand for perfection in everything.

What is it? Loss. What else?

It is hard already to say goodbye to people; it is impossible to say goodbye to a time. Realising this has kicked my senses back into me. I stand on this balcony today and tell myself I will be back here as I look at the town, the variegated green carpet of trees spread over the city, sprawling until you see the hills. And I know in my heart that when I do, it will not be the same. I will not be the same!

Perhaps I take solace in the fact that I found contentment in my heart for a little bit of time, a crumb of it. Until the humanity in me took over and told me there was more to look at and become.

For a little bit, I had peace.

I look towards the open sky: nothing in sight. They say it will rain soon, and we will see the hills again. This is all anyone says when they talk about the weather. Perhaps a script was distributed when December began. I must have missed it—trips here and there. Now, I am stupefied as I stare at the nothingness of the city. The fog does not help, and it, too, is what most people talk about on dinner tables in bars we have frequented ever since we first learned to drink, where we learned how to drink. I do not know why everyone talks the same way, why they say the same things, why all of their complaints and all their wants are the same.

I talked to a score of people today, some strange, some familiar faces. Now, as I stand here with my mug of chamomile and nothing to look at, I think of an experiment. I could picture their faces floating in the air as if the fog ahead was a whiteboard and then draw circles around those who said the exact same things. If I could do this experiment, I would end up with about three circles.

Now, I am aware of the futility of it, and to think all people are the same simply based on what they talk about is superficial and, dare I say, elitist thinking. But as much as people are not replicas, they are also not entirely unlike each other. I reckon this is a good thing. It means there will always be something to share some time, a meal or a drink, and there will always be something common among any two people you put together.

The other day, angry as I was over some paperwork, my brother took the same thing, turned it on its head, and made it sound as if it were a good sign I was asked by my bank to fill out a few additional forms. I could see his intention, but it made me think of how every event, every thought, every moment is malleable. That if we bend things enough, that if we are careful and do not destroy what we have in our hands, we could make it appear precisely how we wanted it, that we could take our frustration-filled tirades and make them sound like the only song we ever wanted to hear.

This, and only this, is my defence against my growing contempt for the world—a world I deeply love at that.

It is ten at night, and now, all is said and done. Everything I had to say to anyone else has already been said, and the things I did not say, I shall keep tucked under my tongue and eventually direct them to my heart with the risk of them making it heavier. Secrets, after all, are suitable for little else. But besides that footnote of a detail, besides those words only worth being in a margin under an asterisk, this day has served as a crescendo to the entire year. I wanted to live a day as close to perfect as possible, so I hatched a plan earlier this morning. I would do everything I expected from an ideal day, and I would clean the house and do the dishes on time. I would lie down for most of it—hopefully, under the sun, but if the sun did not show, then in the artificial warmth of a quilt and some jazz scoring the scene.

The sun did show, and I lay under a brilliant piece of light falling in the right place on the lounger, turning the pedestrian blue into a regal green. On the throne, I lay for the entirety of the evening, some coffee and a book accompanying me, of course. Then, I went out for a walk despite having exercised earlier in the morning, and now, I am ready to end it before the world begins counting the seconds down. Of course, many days this year were far from ideal. At least, they were a far cry from the day today. Now, I sit here and write this soft conclusion for no particular reason besides the quiet joy in my heart. I can only imagine with the wild courage of a flower which tries to grow from between the cement blocks on a mossy sidewalk, I will be able to grow how I want to grow when the time arrives, that the year that comes, that the life that comes will carry with it the scent of satisfaction. I believe I have always said I am utterly and completely fine with any ending for this life and story, but sometimes, I dream and dread alike the many possibilities.

These days that end and begin are just arbitrary ticks in the pointless chart of life, and there is no reason to expect anything different simply because a number changes on the calendar.

And yet, there is a whiff of hope in the air mixed with the lavender I sprayed earlier today.

How hard have I resisted wishing for things all my life, and now, there is a murmuration of them floating about my heart! To know the impossibilities of life, to have drawn the short stick enough to lose trust in the webs of fate and still dare to wish. I am humbled by my own humanity today for a change. On this unremarkable, uneventful last day of the year, I have surrendered.

I learned early on that wishes fell deaf on the ears of the world. I have known that fortune is a combination of work and luck, and I have verified firsthand that the latter has the power to veto and wipe the greatest efforts away. Yet, a newfound hope seems to have hatched in my heart. I only wish for it to be able to carry itself. As quick as it seems to pass, as unprepared we are for December, to spend a whole year is still an ordeal; to reach the end in one piece is a feat in itself. I reckon that is my first wish, a little bit ahead of time:

I wish for my heart to want a little bit of everything, and to not shy away from its claim on its fair share that has been often denied or refused outright.

I wish for my heart to indulge in itself, to want audaciously and loudly, to be able to shake fate in its feet, make it tremble, and then make it bow. And what if fate does not budge still? I wish for my heart to plant itself in protest if that is what it takes. I wish for it to be accommodating but assertive when required, and if I know something about life, it will be required now and then. I wish to be unwavering when it does and to extend my hand to fate, not only to give but to take now and then. A life is, after all, an exchange, and no exchange should ever be perpetually imbalanced. I wish for my heart to demand the same understanding it grants others and to seek those who can grant it.

And with all that, I wish for it to remain kind, to not fall to the perils of wanting, to walk the fine line I seem to have charted for it, and to cross over to the other side slowly but surely. These are my wishes for tomorrow and for the many days that follow.

And if they do not come true?

Then, I wish for the grace to admit defeat but also the tenacity and the boldness to wish for things again.

When this day began, I looked at the time and realised I had overslept. This was according to plan. My wish for the last two days of the year—which I had, in fact, come up with the previous night before sleeping—was to spend them quietly, without much to do, without anywhere to go. All I wanted was to sleep in, wake up late, shower, read, and maybe watch a film. If my friends managed to make time for me, which has gotten rarer than in a blue moon, I would meet them for coffee or drinks, but if this did not happen, which I assumed was how things would transpire as it is not as straightforward to see your friends after reaching a certain age, I would not think of it twice, and simply continue the restful weekend.

And when I woke up and realised it was high noon, I smiled like how you do when things go your way for a change. Then, I got a message from the bank saying there was some document discrepancy, that the account had been blocked, and that I had to visit. Of course, I sighed; of course, this is how things have to be. And then, with the reluctant disposition of a child going to school, I got ready, went out, and got it all sorted out. I smiled through it, of course, as one must do when one knows that the others are only doing their jobs, but to say there was no measure of anger in me would be a lie. Now, I seem to have swallowed it yet again. Now, the day is marred with the banal troubles of the daily.

My wish for the next year is to live for myself.

The colour of this year was interruption. I have spent the year catering to the needs of others and dousing fires, beginning with text messages or calls. And to think I had only just started living for myself in the year that led to this. Once you get a taste of something, it gets harder to not crave it. This is true for love, but more importantly, this is true for peace.

Sometimes, I wish I could buy an estate, raise high walls around it, and only go out for groceries and such. But then, I remember how I would never be able to make that much money. And there goes that dream, just like the one to spend the last two days of the year unbothered.

But then, I reckon, to live is to be bothered.

It feels like December tonight. The air is cold, and quiet nostalgia wafts about, interrupted only by the earthy fragrance of chamomile. The sole, stubborn pigeon still flutters around the air conditioner unit outside. The idiot flies away and knocks his head on the balcony ceiling when I get out to shoo it. I have begun to feel terrible for it now, so sometimes, I let it sit and cause a ruckus within some unthought-of, permissible limit, like how you allow a child to make a certain level of mess before you chide them for it. Tolerance is an innate human quality. It exists in us by design. And so does impatience. And often, they clash with one another, and then, you must find a way to rein the impatience in with one hand and extend the other forward. Pigeons or people—all could use a little bit of leeway. Life is hard as it is, and for some, especially on chilly December nights, it is harder.

Smooth jazz plays in the background for no reason besides the moment calling for it. Let us ease into it, that which has happened, that which will happen. There are three days for bookkeeping, for us to tell ourselves the final tally of how we were. We must look at ourselves as honestly as we can only so we can be better. There are no Gods and monsters for grown-ups. We wish there were, but everything holy that could ever exist is up to the hands that hold everything in place, and when there is nothing to hold, the hands that hold each other. And if there are any monsters, we make them, and sometimes, we make them in our image, and we make them so alike that we cannot tell them apart from us. It is easy to live with make-believe ideas of life, but it is much harder to take responsibility, to know that everything that is and everything that is not begins and ends where we do, that our decisions shape some of it, and the rest is a coin toss.

The year has ended. Some decisions were made, few were acted upon, and the consequences rolled in like the morning newspaper. No time to fret anymore, only to lie down and rest a little, sip some tea, listen to music, and look at what is to come eagerly.

Pigeons or people, after all, could always use a little bit of leeway.

Fortune tellers scare me. They are certain beyond reasonable measure. The surety they provide people is lost on those like me, who have come into fortunate situations but only at a cost.

As I sit on this bus, I think about seemingly random events from my life that I would never think of in one sitting, or ever. It occurred to me just now, without a nudge, that all the good that has happened to me, and there sure is so much, has come with absurd costs. I am forced to think that this would not be the only box in which life delivers presents, but my name is on it, that it has never come easy, that with every sweet memory, there is a bitter one entwined within, and if bitter is too extreme then sour would be a good fit. In any case, the flavour of nostalgia is all messed up, and now, I sit, craving water.

For all my early financial success, I was pushed out of the flow of time, like how you often take a service lane running beside the highway to get ahead, but you find an entry into the mainstream traffic eventually. I am still looking for it. I have travelled far now, and this has brought a sort of loneliness I could not put into words, for even if I try, the only look I get is one of disgust, which, too, is fair. How would one expect others to look beyond the measure of money when it is a measure that comes hard and often does not come at all? But it would not change the last decade for me. Both can be true, after all.

And I have found love so many times, but it has never come easy and, often, has presented itself in impossible dichotomies strictly out of my purview. I have found love only to be asked to let it go. Over and over, this has happened, and now, I envy people I know who did not have to go through this ordeal, who have had it, as they talk about my finances, easy. But I know things are seldom easy, and if I were to extend empathy, there must be costs they have paid, things I would never know about. But then, again, both things can be true.

Little else is on my mind today, and it may remain like this until the end of the year. Of course, I will laugh and be merry as one does, but I will also be thinking about everything I do not tell others, as most do.

I stand by the kitchen shelf and watch the machine slowly squeeze crema out of the grounds and into the cup. I watch the kettle huff and puff in the other corner. I think of this act I have done a million times by now, and if that is hyperbolic, a few thousand times would be a good count. Unlike the coffee, not a lot comes out of the thought, but I still think about it, about the intricate mechanical processes behind the simple act of making a cup of coffee for yourself, about how the entirety of science and engineering has contributed to it, about how even the mug I pour both the shot and the warm water in has been around, as a design, for centuries.

The mug is, after all, perfect design, and I often argue with friends at parties and dinners that there was no need for intricate glasses, that the mug was perfection like the plastic chairs found globally are perfection. No matter where it is found, a typical person’s plastic chair looks precisely the same. No matter what neighbourhood you are in and what country the neighbourhood is a part of, the chair and the mug remain. We only add complexity on top of things when they cannot be made any simpler.

There is often no insight in life, just beauty and banality in equal measure. We live our lives day after day, and then, we are asked, “What have you learned?” Nothing. I have learned to live my life. Nothing could be any more or any less important to me. But none of what I have learned can serve as some grand truth or philosophy. As a writer, I am expected to peddle meaning to you while you haggle with me about the cost and tell me to “write shorter pieces”. It has been twelve years since I first called myself a writer, and I have still not found my way. This makes me chuckle on this fine December day.

Do not ask me about meaning or what I am trying to say in these words. I have as much to say as you do, and if you think you have nothing to say, then grant me the same privilege. I do not have answers. I make coffee in the morning, move my body a little when I can motivate myself, work at a job I sometimes enjoy, and, on most days, try to help someone when I am out for a walk. I reckon that is about all one can do.

As the cold air from outside started to set in the apartment, turning the warmest blanket cold, I got off the rug and turned the kettle on. Unsurprisingly, the end of December is colder than the rest of it. Out of laziness to not brew a proper cup, I put two heaps of instant coffee in the mug and poured the bubbling, boiling water into it. I did not need to stir the water; there it was: warmth in a cup.

There is nothing outside this balcony door. The sky has turned to a depressingly light shade of grey as if this were some kind of void, and this apartment was floating in it, away from the real world. The rest of what should be there has been consumed entirely by the fog and the haze. Ever so visible, the hills have been cropped and deleted from the landscape. The houses have begun disappearing. It might rain soon, and then, it will all be alright. It is not about the coldness but the dryness. Once the rain arrives and dampens everything, the days start to feel less cold.

By two in the afternoon today, I had a headache—not a particularly debilitating one, but the one that inhibits your faculties and demands you sit in front of the TV with a blanket wrapped around you. I woke up this way, too, but how I carried myself this morning only worsened things. It began with the urgent realisation that my life was happening, that the decisions I had left on the shoulders of eventuality had not met their conditions and contingencies. It was all supposed to go to plan, but nothing did, and now, many things remain undone as tasks labelled “someday” on my to-do list.

No more, I told myself and began to write the plan for the years to come. This involved a lot of financial arithmetic and collection of hope. The latter was the hardest and grew my exhaustion tenfold, but I was able to chart a course. The last five years have brought a barrage of broken dreams, which have, in turn, postponed and delayed the rest of my life. I have danced to the whimsical tunes fate has played on its flute. I have managed to stay on my feet. But no more! I see now that this blank December sky is but a canvas, and I can see the rest of my life in it.

It seems I have learned how to dream again.

Woke up inside a hole in my head and couldn’t find any rock sticking out to grab onto, to climb on from. Finding no visible and apparent way out, I realised my wits had betrayed me. Nothing made sense, but this was not something new. It had happened before, and it had happened a thousand times over, and each time, I had found a way out. All that was left to do was make a cup of coffee, and not just make it like the clockwork of every day but to do it softly, with the painstaking attention and the impossible focus of a watchmaker. Then, when it was ready, to take a whiff and let the aroma conquer the farthest corners of my mind, leaving no gap whatsoever, and in doing so, lift me out of the hole I was in. Before I knew it, goosebumps spread all over my body and with each wave, I learned, once again, that everything was okay. It was always about the moment, about taking control of it and reining it in. It was always about telling your mind who is in charge. An exercise done patiently but swiftly, before it can cause any damage further down the day. Presence is the only rope we need. And if you do not prefer the flavour of coffee, well, you must pick whatever you like, and the result will be the same. That, I can promise you.

Once I climbed out and found my way to the desk, I had a conversation with all my fears. I told my fear of never being accepted as I was that there was grace in rebellion, at least the kind that begins at desks made of engineered wood. I noticed my fears of never being chosen and always being chosen second whispered to each other and nodded in some sort of absurd agreement, and softly, I smiled at them and thanked them for making me who I became, told them they were my favourite ones, that if I were ever to pick and choose fears, which was not a luxury many could afford, I would choose them both over and over. Finally, I looked at my fear of always being alone, sitting quietly and staring at the cup of coffee before it. I asked it to look around at all the lives we had touched together, and all my fears disappeared, as they often do.

Then, I wrote a little and began the day. The ghosts of Christmas looked different for all of us.

All the money in the world could never buy an ounce of peace. They do not sell it in stores. You cannot order it today and have a package delivered tomorrow. It can buy comfort, sure, and opportunity, yes, and we must not discount it, but peace comes differently. You need to build your way up to it and craft it with your own hands, and often, it might look messy and absurd. It is not a tranquil garden. It is the quiet moment as you alternate between the different roles you play in the land of the living. It is a couple of moments sometimes, and sometimes, it is even shorter. I can speak only for myself when I say this, but for me, it is a house of cards. My peace is engineered so shoddily and so broken is every single part of it in itself that it is held together by tape and hope. There is no stability in it, and that it remains intact day after day is as much a surprise to me as it would be to anyone else. But it is my own, its shaky foundations aside and notwithstanding. Every day, I make repairs to it, and when you patch one hole, ten new ones open in it. It is, quite frankly, a full-time job. This leaves little in me to care about the world at large, not that I am apathetic but mostly, I am exhausted. I do not like getting involved anymore. There was a time when I went out of my way to solve and fix things for others, but most of my days are spent tending to this Macgyvered masterpiece, this chaotic contraption that I call peace.

To be left to my devices, to be left to my solitude, is not a preference but a side effect. My personal pocket of peace causes me to remove myself from people, from places, and situations I cannot help or lend a hand in. Often, we begin things in life and do not know where they will lead us, but that they lead us somewhere we do not expect is more common than one might imagine. This is what has happened to my life. Most of my days are spent scheming in secret to get all the moments of peace I can get, and peace aside, since we cannot discount that money can, in fact, buy many things, the rest of my days are spent in earning a living. How else, do you reckon, have I been able to write these bookmarks for so long?