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21 June 2015 @ 02:37 am
take me to your river  
It is already more than halfway through the year. I have barely written anything; the days have only been filled with doing. Of late, it has been training five times a week, feet coated with calluses and an unshakeable smell of sweat and gritted effort, floorball too, wild and carefree and hearty laughs, and work. Always work for the most part of the day. It has been ten months, going to eleven, but I am still not used to it. People never do get used to it, probably. It appears to be a flesh-suit that ones step into and zips all the way up. Latex maybe, some material that constricts and stretches and pinches at the very being of you. But I am being far too negative. After all, I don't know what I want (just not this very much). Some days, I get ideas of picking plump cherries in New Zealand. Doing graduate studies in Edinburgh. Living in a house made of windows amidst a prairie. Hobbling down cobblestone. Hardening up a twitch of the lip and scribbling into a journalist's notepad. Staring wide-eyed and compassionate and nodding, while running over the island doing Good, touchable and measurable Good. But as the list grows longer, the realization that time is essentially limiting looms more definite. Of these options, possible at this very moment, they will mostly come not to be. They are very beautiful chaff, very distracting, very calming, but ultimately, chaff. And of course, I would be swayed by the winds or be drowned out by the trumpets of 'reason'. Cash is king; you can't go anywhere without it, this is the capitalist drivel cementing the mathematical calculations- how would one eat? where would one live until eighty? what about loans and debt and interest rates?-, and should you pay no heed, should the cogs run free and beckoning, the resultant insecurity will be crippling. And I'm not as brave as that, not as motivated. I have barely written for five months after all. How would I subsist on words which don't even appear on blue moons?

Life is comfortable now. It has been wonderful. Modern society creates the giddy flutter which people love to entertain. I pack my calendar with bullet points and demarcate the time allocated to this friend, that outing, and summarize the time with nouns and adjectives and capitalized verbs. "Amazing waffle", "LAUGHED SO HARD", "tips from coach". I don't ever look back though. I don't have time to read through everything again. Every day (for the past month), I rise at seven, reach work at eight, lunch is at one, leave work at five thirty, reach home at six fifteen, take a thirty minute nap, train from seven-thirty to ten-thirty, home by eleven, bedtime around twelve, and rinse and repeat and rise with resistant limbs. The three weeks in Japan already feels like an impossible dream. It was glorious, and it is incredulous that two months had already passed since I set off. Another realm, the hours were golden even with rain and torn maps and hesitant half-Japanese, and the people were sunshine, warm and giving, so giving with their time and their tales and goodwill! When one goes on holiday, everything is interesting, and somehow, it gets reciprocated. You become interested and interesting. I drank in the mountains, the lakes, the seas, the sprawling urban frazzle like a steaming iron, and smiled and said hello to people, and sipped tea as I listened to a hippie exult about India, and strutted across the railway matrix as if I knew the place, and dropping stories with nouns and adjectives and capitalized people with what they had told me in five minutes, and ran into hugs of old friends, and stuffed my belly with happy sighing food. I was spell-bound every day, as if goggles had been snapped on and I was leaning forward, beyond a train window and taking in deep breaths of spring air, nose buried in flower pockets, and ah, this is how life should be: awake and engaged, and ever so often, on a train speeding towards some anticipated-but-unknown.

But I do like the stillness of some days as well. The evening that I remember and love the most: lying haphazardly on a too-small bed, a tangle of fingers and arms and legs, and it was still. Unstirring and snuggled and contouring waves on a resting scalp, and breathing in syncrhonicity, breathing in the same warm air, and it was quiet after sleepy giggles during dinner, and it was just us, eyelashes and cheeks and temples, and tiny kisses and a constant soft rustling. A hum in my heart, a harbour in the darkness. Tender like home.

And bedtime calls.
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♫: Leon Bridges - River