In that dark room, with the curtains drawn, there is only the artificial light of the TV to illuminate my face. My hair, this wild bushiness, has sprung free and is twirling in all directions, wanting, like me, to go everywhere all at once. The result is the same whether it’s about hair or personal decisions: it’s a mess. There is sweat running down my neck, droplets of it prickling my back. There are mosquito bites too, adorning my arms. In the silence, tendrils of Liszt’s “Le Mal Du Pays” played by Berman travels through the night. The world suddenly feels very small, confined to this one dimly-lit room. I like the music better now, the second time around. This time, I feel it. Like I feel the heat trapped in between my skin and the cotton of my clothes. “Le Mal Du Pays” huh? Homesickness. I don’t know where I am homesick for. I feel I have never been there. Only once, vividly, in dreams. But there is no proof. That there is home somewhere. That I even had the dream—maybe I conjured the thought from my imagination. There is only this: this feeling that argues against everything. This feeling that will not be silenced, will not be stuffed even in this tiny, closed-up room, even in this darkness. Of all the music I could have chosen, it had to be “Le Mal Du Pays”, that too, when I am someplace many would call home.
Note: As promised, this is the entry for Day 27 of my little NaNoWriMo Writing Challenge. You can read the entry for the previous day here 🙂