Everyone has gone home and my floor is completely silent. It's Friday.
But how does it matter? When the sky outside can no longer be seen through the blinds, it will be no different from the other days of the week when I go home at what seems the dead of night.
The world outside registers only cursorily. My visual registers are this office floor, daylight seen through the room adjoining the kitchen at home, and the kitchen at night; maybe the bathroom when I have to take a bath.
The head registers are (now) in Jo Nesbo -- Harry Hole's self-proclaimed rictus of a smile -- I am waiting for him to kill the antagonist in gruesome fashion as I slow-read the remaining one-sixth of the book the second time; The Vague Woman's Handbook which is stalled in Delhi February winter before the Metro cut permanent tracks across the way we planned our days; ma's doctor's appointment and the delayed tests; my friends. Rubbish Tinder occasionally bobs up, the Internet leaves its mark in everything, everything. And oh, WORK, and the fear and anger that go with it.
I am not unhappy, there is still always the peace that comes with your heart being yours, your decisions independent of others' selfish, selfish desires. The actual happinesses seem magnified manifold, as if one were on I dunno, ganja, LSD? Like the KJR trip. The passing minute heartbreaks that happen seem to tear up the heart, so terrible it feels to want something from someone and to not get it. Then, that is cut away, and peace restores itself, like finding your balance again after swaying briefly on an aal.
One grows up, one grows older.
But how does it matter? When the sky outside can no longer be seen through the blinds, it will be no different from the other days of the week when I go home at what seems the dead of night.
The world outside registers only cursorily. My visual registers are this office floor, daylight seen through the room adjoining the kitchen at home, and the kitchen at night; maybe the bathroom when I have to take a bath.
The head registers are (now) in Jo Nesbo -- Harry Hole's self-proclaimed rictus of a smile -- I am waiting for him to kill the antagonist in gruesome fashion as I slow-read the remaining one-sixth of the book the second time; The Vague Woman's Handbook which is stalled in Delhi February winter before the Metro cut permanent tracks across the way we planned our days; ma's doctor's appointment and the delayed tests; my friends. Rubbish Tinder occasionally bobs up, the Internet leaves its mark in everything, everything. And oh, WORK, and the fear and anger that go with it.
I am not unhappy, there is still always the peace that comes with your heart being yours, your decisions independent of others' selfish, selfish desires. The actual happinesses seem magnified manifold, as if one were on I dunno, ganja, LSD? Like the KJR trip. The passing minute heartbreaks that happen seem to tear up the heart, so terrible it feels to want something from someone and to not get it. Then, that is cut away, and peace restores itself, like finding your balance again after swaying briefly on an aal.
One grows up, one grows older.
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