Lonely. I can see the lights around my building, flickering, welcoming me back. But, I don’t want to be back. I want the road to keep going. I want the music to keep playing. I don’t want to be home. Why can’t it keep going, why can’t it take me far away, away from reality, away from uncertainties and intangible dreams? But, this road ends at one point. I’ve hit a dead-end and I have to step out of the car.
i drank a chocolate milkshake last night. i was wearing my cousin’s Virginia Tech hat with my scarf wrapped around my neck. With each sip I felt like i was in heaven.
“Whoever made this shake should be given a Noble Prize!” i said and they laughed at me.
At certain occasions it hits me that i’ve come to know who i am. the fact that i admit it surprises some people. But i do. it took years for me to figure out who i want to be. and i think i finally know. once you know yourself, you feel like you own the world. i don’t know if i own it yet, but i do feel that i belong to it. to this life. to this place.
In English class we have to find the realities of what we write. If we write about a childhood memory, we have to find a deeper meaning, a realization.
I think everything we do, every minute we spend, has its own reality. We don’t think about them, but they’re there.
The library closed so we went downstairs to find a spot. We decided to go to English class to see if Mr. Booz was in his room. It was 4 p.m. and he had left already.
We sat on the stairs instead. As we proof-read our papers, Nur and I laughed about something that happened in Government class. Soon Swati joined us. That day we spent three hours editing, laughing, joking, and acting silly. We were three friends, simply living in the moment. As we walked through the empty hallways towards the main entrance, we couldn’t stop laughing.
A day later I asked Nur jokingly, “So what was the reality of yesterday?”
She looked at me and casually said, “The reality is that we’ve grown to laugh in between finishing assignments and making grades. We’ve learned to take the hard things a little easier. We’ve learned that no matter how stressed we are, no matter how tough it is being a teenager, it’s possible to laugh once in a while, to be wild and crazy.”
Every fact, every story, and every memory can have a meaning if you look deep down. The childhood memories that we rarely think about are full of facts, full of little details. It’s up to us to look for their reality.
I have started a relationship with a chat screen. It’s a temporary one. One of these days it will be over. My friend Shubi invited me to a site and now we’ve found guys who never did and never will exist in our lives. One lives in Britain. One in India. Our roads will never connect to theirs. It’s that simple.
I don’t regret this imaginary, yet beautiful illusion that I have created for myself. Shubi doesn’t either. We wished the “relationship” could somehow be real, no matter how unrealistic.
Sometimes even the most sensible person, as Nur put it, can be a little senseless. I don’t believe illusions are wrong. I don’t think making yourself believe you’re worth it is wrong. Happiness, no matter how temporary, shouldn’t be titled “wrong”.
The weather reporters said we will have a lot of sun today. Except the sky was pure grey. As I walked from my bus stop, the wind felt like a slap on my face.
As I sit here with an empty cereal bowl next to me, I’m thinking about what I’m looking forward to. Am I looking forward to tomorrow?
Sometimes, it’s the days we look forward to that make us happy, that urge us to keep going, to keep trying. If it isn’t sunny today, then perhaps we can look forward to a warm breakfast the next morning, or a hot cup of tea as the rain washes the bad memories away.
By the time we reached Old Town, Alexandria, it was 10 minutes to 12 a.m. People of all ages gathered under the bridge, by the side walks or by their cars. Some were already drunk, shouting at each other from opposite sides of the road. Whatever spot they found, that’s where they stayed. As we searched for a parking space, we heard the fire works. There was no place to park. It was 12 and we said Happy New Year to each other in the car. We finally parked the car and were able to see some of the fire works from behind some houses.
Out in the streets, the adults looked for bars, the only places open at that time. R and I gave up the thought of having a warm Starbucks drink.
We drove home, listening to the live D.J at Fur Night Club. It was a lonely, yet beautiful New Year’s Eve.
The cold faucet in my shower needs to be fixed. I have to turn it five or six times before it will release any water. I also need to change two of the lamp bulbs in my room. I’ve been putting the task off for days and my room is now too dark. All I have to do is open the closet in the living room and take a 60 watts bulb out. But something keeps me from moving, from doing the simplest things. Sometimes I sit for hours in front of my old IBM laptop. I don’t have the energy to get up; I don’t want to get up. In the mornings, I like to sleep or close my eyes if I can’t sleep any longer. When I’m awake, I like to imagine the dreams that I didn’t get to have the night before.
My life needs a little bit of repairing. And I’m not just talking about a loose faucet or a broken bulb, I’m talking about bad habits that need repair.
I didn’t close my bedroom door last night before I went to bed. Maybe I was too lazy or maybe it just didn’t matter. Every night before I fall asleep, I look at the world map next to me on the wall. I think of all the places I want to see and go to sleep with those thoughts. Sometimes the only way to get to what I want is through my dreams.
I picked the coffee cup with the blue and green paint. We had three candles lit and the rest of the lights were out. Outside the rain poured. The house was dark and gloomy; the only thing missing was a funeral reception. But she liked the setting that way so I had to accept the temporary silence and darkness. She looked into my coffee cup and told me what she saw. Birds. A bride and a groom. I listened and she read my life, or at least pieces of it. That dark afternoon I drank the turkish coffee and listened to my fate as she told it. On that moment, that bitter coffee made me happy. The rain that I always hate relieved and soothed me. I never thought I would ever love the things I hate.
He said I will be a writer in New York. I didn’t want to hear it because I was scared. Scared it wouldn’t happen. I guess it is what I want, yet I’m afraid of it. I’ve always loved New York; I have one of those white t-shirts with the red heart that say ‘I Love New York’. But, the question is, do I love it enough to build a life there? To suddenly throw myself out in the crowded, dirty streets of Manhattan? Will I trust myself?
Every time I say good-bye to Manhattan and Times Square, I think to myself, what would it be like if I don’t have to say good-bye? Would it be so hard? Why am I afraid of the big city that I’ve always said I love?