On A Foreign Bed
I am wearing clean clothes from top to bottom. These socks are new, this sweater is freshly washed. I washed my hair and combed it nice. I am preparing for life, I am ready for it.
Cut to the next scene and nothing feels better. I have made plans for leaving but I don’t know how to not look behind.
I found my old notepad from a couple years ago. 2019. I used to jot things down when I was on the bus, on the train. I would write things down while sitting in restaurants, in parks. I was disappointed to find that some things haven’t changed even now. Maybe in the grand scheme of any story, the vein pulses to the same rhythm always. Does that make it reassuring, or does it reaffirm the tragic nature of it all?
1st nov 2019
Not eating enough. Intense panic convinces me that I am going to drop dead at the spot. Never happens.
14th nov 2019
I wanted so much last night, and I did not feel guilty about it.
24th nov 2019
I used to be smart.
3rd dec 2019
Next year I want to be better.
Last night Romi came over without any announcement. We sat on the sofa and watched a movie, whose details slipped my mind as soon as they entered it. It is fun, playing pretend. Everything is okay, nice, going great. Domesticity.
Remember when we used to pretend?
A beautiful house of mine, a gramophone and bookcases all over. I dry my clothes on the terrace; the sun stays in the living room until one. I love it. You visit me sometimes, spend the night. I love my house the most then.
meditations have turned into fragmentals. middle of the day for me right now. it’s cold here. my hair is red now, some of it. life altering events need to take place in rapid succession and with enough intesity that i am knocked off my feet. so romantic. happy (soon to be here) february, eat something nice. love, heera.