These are ‘unprecedented times’.
But in the small room that is my world, I sit in relative comfort and contentment. The world outside my room is changing. The number of those stricken by death and disease goes up every hour and the air is stagnant. The wheels of the world appear to be motionless.
And here I am, in my room surrounded by everything that comforts me.
There is the sky when I want it. I want it every evening for its vastness. It is a symbol that the day is emptying itself and the night will follow. And what treasures the night holds for me. When it is finally alright to be by myself. No one considers it strange that a person wants to be home then. In fact, it is socially encouraged and accepted that we should all return to our houses as the sun goes down. I want to be my night.
There is the world where I want it. Accessible. Undemanding. I look at it contained inside the 14 inch screen. I walk the streets of a foreign country. I try to decipher foreign tongues. I read jokes in foreign tongues, translated twice before it makes sense to me. I value opinions from foreign leaders on grave foreign things. How much of it is foreign, really? Perhaps, I can best sum it up by saying that the very nature of the world’s foreignness is now a source of comfort. The world is accessible and I have reached out enough times. I am content.
And then there is love. The love that is fading. Has anyone told you how beautiful and strange but familiar it is? It is beautiful and strange because there’s never been anything like this in your life. No one is ever prepared for love to wane. There is no definite reason. Just like falling in love, falling out of love is an amalgamation of instances, words, the calls you didn’t answer, the breaths you held in and those you let loose. It is beautiful and familiar because we have all lost something at some point. We have lost friendships, our childhood, our first terrors. So I know I will be fine regardless of the direction I turn to at the end of this journey.
And then there is love. Again. Within reach though not just yet. I see it in the horizon and that keeps me going. After I submerge my terrors, I feel the waves come back, gently lapping against the edges of my being. Softening the hard corners that I’ve built over time. Give in, give in, give in. There is freedom in the words I shape. I’ve been using them with too much abandon lately and sometimes I can feel the sting they leave behind. Realisation hits three-seconds too late and I berate myself in the safety of my room. More often than not, I slip and slip again. I also make plans. Now there is only one for whom I draw elaborate dreams. Some dreams are set to a 5-year limit. I am working and earning well, decorating my house, enjoying a week-long sleepy vacation on a quiet beachside resort, walking alone in the bustling capitals of different countries. Sometimes, they are set to expire within a day and are as humble as tidying my closet or cooking a certain dish for dinner. Take 6 eggs, break them directly into the pan, stir and serve.
I have plans. I’m growing my hair. I plan to colour it. I am considering learning a new language. When the world is the new normal and it is safe, I will get a tattoo. I’m planning on convincing myself to exercise. I’m going to be more mindful. I will write more, to exorcise my ghosts and to make fun of myself.
I have plans that are doomed to failure. Case in point- to exercise, to plant vegetables, to paint, to learn a new language. I am alright, all is right with me.
The world is chaotic. But, in this moment, that world is beyond my reality. My private cocoon is a luxury and I will celebrate this love.
