Equilibrium

 
Spring.

Spring has come, and brought along with it baggages from the past. The hot, suffocating dry air is a constant reminder of how things used to be twelve months ago.

So what better way to revisit past moments than with songs from the period?


I thought to myself what it was like. I thought to myself all that had happened. I thought to myself, and nodded.

I have come a long way. I have grown, and let many, many baddies go. I am also stronger, and much more seasoned than I was before —the crises of life have made me more hardy for sure. So many things in the world can hurt me no longer. I am not a mess with my emotions. I don’t easily fall into fits of depression. Or bouts of hate.


Life at the moment isn’t half as good as it can be, but neither is it half as bad as it would seem. With only a tiny bank account and a somewhat busy academic semester, life has been lived pretty much without the frills or the excesses of greed and desire.

It’s just me, my family, a few lifelong friends, the books, the weights and the whey. And of course, the sporadic excursions with my ageing d-eighty, which is still rolling out them day-lit scenes wonderfully well.

Really, I wouldn't want anything other than this simple, lean and drama-free existence.


Now, if only I can find an answer to the age-old “meaning of life” question.

No Place Like...

 

I close my eyes.

The images start to flash.

Bright, dull lights hanging high atop the brown pyramidal shell that is the roof. The cold, harsh architecture, the concrete, the grey plastic, the pale marble flooring, the electric mini-train.

Images of my parents, my hands on the thick steering wheel, the odometer, the xenon-lit highway, the hint of palm trees, the valley at night, my cats.

And as if the relentless attacks on my consciousness was not enough, the dreams I dream each night too, are beyond escape.

One wonders if I’d go insane before I manage to even step onto that scheduled -400 jet.

A New Start

 
This is my ninth draft, and is one that I intend to publish, instead of putting to the bin like all the others before. 

I have so much to write about; me being sick of almost any and every one around me, and almost any and every thing.

But nothing I write would be fit for reading.

In between the weights and the jogs, the whey and the Quarter Pounders, the studies and sleep, I have neither the time nor energy for anything else.

I couldn’t for the life of me muster even a coherent post, despite the repeated attempts.



I miss home so much.

I miss my family. I miss the valley. I miss alcohol. I miss drinking with my dad. I miss driving that wonderful car. I miss my closest and best friends.

A few more months to go, and another four subjects to pass.

Life, for now, seems unbearably arduous, and impossibly long.

 

Warmth

 
The arrival of winter brings along with it the gloomy, cloudy, grey over-cast skies, the plummeting temperatures, and an unending barrage of drizzle and rain.

It is little wonder that coffee sells so well, and has seeped so deeply in —and has become such an integral part of— the colder worlds' culture[s].

It is close to impossible to get out of bed in the frigid cold mornings.

It is close to impossible to sleep comfortably in the night.



Can’t help but keep thinking about this particular place back home; can’t help but feel distinctly warm and fuzzy picturing this place in my mind; can’t stop thinking, missing and craving the hot and the humid afternoons, with my car’s air-conditioner supplying a perfect stream of breezy cool of air.