The morning begins with a downpour, as if earth is attempting to bring its climate back to an equilibrium by introducing grey clouds, to cool its otherwise intensely heated self. Today is however unusually quiet, notwithstanding the usual mynas and the faded goodbyes of cars as they leave their houses. Take a deep breath — the clean and heavenly scent of the after-rain is awfully refreshing. I remember writing till late at night yesterday, and realising under the yellow light that my handwriting’s changed; they curve like deadly branches. I woke up feeling dreadful and tired, the whirl of emotions and daunting presentiment just mix like terrible soup. All I want is to just drink tea and be fully engaged in reading Plath’s pellucid writing; to be utterly obsessed over her profound philosophies and gravely depressing thoughts.
I spend my days at home wondering about what I have done for the past 18 years. First, you realise that time is like a selfish old man, giving you more in suffering and shortening it in joy. Second, life is pretty much always an equilibrium — one never gets too much discrimination for they are remedied with sympathy. Conversely, too much joy today confiscates the bliss of tomorrow. One cannot be the embodiment of everything idealistic, for flawlessness takes away another precious element from oneself. And this is life — we are nothing but mere actors on an invisible stage, under the subjugation of a possibly diabolic puppeteer; where night and day are merely styrofoam backdrops they change according to what they favour.