Searching for daylight stars

” I myself am a journalism graduate with a fear of talking to strangers. There must be, out in this world, others. Colour-blind artists. Deaf musicians. Dyslexic writers. People who, everyday, deal with the two or three or four facets of their own natures.”

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Art by : 9jedit

Sunday evening flows calm and golden, like riverwater over rocks. The streets are bare. The wind whistles a tune, if you strain your ear. Leaves rustle aloft, the soft shhh sound of waves crashing on a faraway beach.

Sundays have always been like this. Never noisy, always sweet and surreal in all of their quietness. Perhaps it is because sundays are for mass, for bells that toll with sharp punctuality, sometimes overlapping the solemn call of a muezzin. Sundays are days for reflection, quiet admiration.

Head in the clouds, as I am searching for daylight stars and my own version of the truth, my mind plucks at a thought like a harp string, sending vibrations flying all around, echoing off walls and then back.

What a beautiful day to stay indoors, it begins.

And yet my legs itch to turn back and follow the golden light to somewhere far away.

My heart and mind wish to stay, to bask in the quietude and serenity of the day, having reached a point and place mantled by a warmth that makes you not want to move. Instead, staying in place, watching the scenery change until tomorrow comes, inevitably.

My body and soul crave adventure, though. Want to sing old songs, teeter around, walk on brickwalls and explore under bridges, unraveling some of this old city’s mysteries.

How strange it is to be made of such contradictory forces. How wonderful, too. Half the time, I can never decide, though. To be home-loving and have a wanderer’s soul is not so easy, although I am sure there are much harder problems to deal with in life. Even so, I think about all the other people who live such contradictions. I myself am a journalism graduate with a fear of talking to strangers. There must be, out in this world, others. Colour-blind artists. Deaf musicians. Dyslexic writers. People who, everyday, deal with the two or three or four facets of their own natures.

” We can write stories about the journeys that we made.” *

There is always a place in my mind that plays music. And this, this is a song all about traveling the world, and trusting in the brand newness of everydays. And yet I am never sure if I want to write stories or make journeys. Still, perhaps one could argue that in doing either one, one ends up doing both.

Maybe it is not so impossible, after all.

There are some words that should naturally not belong together : flightless birds, inkless tattoos, strange familiarity. And yet they do. They fit together in a same sentence, and one does not negate the other. If seeds can take flight and then grow roots, the improbable, the ironic are perhaps merely oddities. Unusual yet possible.

If humans can live with good and evil inside of them, I think I can manage a heart and mind that are homebodies, and a body and soul always eager to set sail for the next adventure.


* Listening to :

Note : I had so much fun looking for art to pair up with today’s post. 9jedit’s work always leaves me speechless and in awe.

An Introvert’s Sunday Reverie

“…lingering in between the sheets just a while longer, drinking in that sweet warmth, the last remains of starry dreams still clinging to your lashes.”

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Art by : Yaoyao Ma Van As

I don’t want to be famous.

Although I think everyone —at some point in their lives at least— has wanted to be, I don’t think I want to, now. A while back, I decided that I sank perfectly well into anonymity. That no amount of fame or glamour could ever bring me as much joy and peace as the kind of Sunday I’ve had today.

Waking up a little later than usual, and lingering in between the sheets just a while longer, drinking in that sweet warmth, the last remains of starry dreams still clinging to your lashes. Then waking up not out of obligation: not because of the time it is or the things that need to be done that day, but simply because you are ready.

And then you walk around the house idly for a while, chuckling as you take in the look of your bedhead, and smiling because it doesn’t matter, because you like it, somehow: that tangled wilderness that bears proof of all the past night’s half-forgotten dreams.

And then humming, doing weird dances while nobody’s looking, while nobody knows. Right there, in the quiet warmth of a house no one would think twice about. Still, you go about in a sleep-induced haze, zoning out as you prepare breakfast, taking 10 minutes to pour some milk and cereal and not knowing where all that time went, not caring about it. Because it’s not lost time. It does not feel like a waste. It is part of taking care of yourself. Besides, you always manage to emerge from these inattentive spells with a song on your breath or an old memory replaying in your mind.

And then you watch something nice, or you draw. You write, you read, you paint, you make music.

Quietly, introvertedly.

You try one of those homemade face masks, and somewhere in the middle of looking for refined sugar, realise that there is nothing more important than this, in this very moment. You find that amidst all the layers of self-doubt and self-hate that you wear all week long, you actually like yourself. You’re pretty fun to be with, really.

And then as the day passes and afternoon comes, you take a nap, because you can. You stare at the ceiling, thinking up improbable scenarios and laughing quietly. You think about odd things, about all the other things that must be happening around the world at that exact same time. You think about your friend in Italy and the other who’s…well you’re not exactly sure where. And there’s no envy there either, just wonder.

Either way, there’s not much that could move you at that point. There’s not much that could take away that sweet, quiet anonymity.

So no, no fame for me. No, thank you.

I just want to be that quiet neighbour who sings really loud sometimes, and who spends her afternoons surrounded by overgrown plants on her balcony, watching as distant airplanes weave through the clouds, and drinking peach iced tea while wondering when it would be a good time to fly a kite again.

These Sunday Evenings

“A place to drift off, to find yourself loosening up and catching quite the recreational nap, as sunlight would filter through the window and rest  like a feather on one side of your face, all light and warm.”

I am so grateful for our little time-loop, our escape from the world. It’s not much, just a couple hours every Sunday, around 3 to 6, tea, cake and conversation or leafing through newspapers. A few hours of watching crap TV or of playing the same Mario Kart or Just Dance.

Sometimes, we all just lie down and ease into our own worlds, bodies still heavy and weary from the drudgery of the past week, and we don’t talk. We just shove each other around and gaze into our phones.

It seems a pity, doesn’t it?

You don’t see somebody for a whole week and when you do, you don’t even look at them.  But we never needed that anyway. It was never about how much we talked or what we talked about. It was just about being there, all together. Like an agreed upon thing we never discussed, these Sundays at Nan’s place. Some place safe. Somewhere you always belonged even though you could freeze your bum off on the tiled floor if someone decided to sprawl all over the bed. A place to drift off, to find yourself loosening up and catching quite the recreational nap, as sunlight would filter through the window and rest  like a feather on one side of your face, all light and warm. A time to suddenly notice the birdsong and the sounds of motorcycle engines roaring away. A place to reminisce or to tease (“I swear the mattress dipped half a metre down after you ate those 2 slices of banana bread.”) Or talk about the neighbours. Or complain about life and exams and expectations, or moaning about how there is nothing to do.

Just bring yourself, eat cake, drink tea, and be whatever the day wills you into.


Note: ‘NaNoWriMo’ Day 5

Boring Sundays and Warm Loneliness

Before, there was no room for boredom. Only space for: “I am soul-deep tired. I want to stop.” But now that there is nothing to do, my mind seeks out dreams covered in dust, like old diaries.

‘If I can’t create a new feeling,’ my mind reasons, ‘why not visit an old one?’

“Sundays are boring.” my sister complains like she does every other Sunday of the year.

It could be true though. We, as a collective, as a family, rarely leave the house on Sundays. But as someone who has been known to enjoy laziness and quiet moments of introversion, Sundays such as those suit me just fine. Even if they are tinged with loneliness, it is a loneliness specific to Sundays, something I have known all my life. So, in its own twisted way, it is a comforting ache.

This warm kind of loneliness, I feel it especially now that I have yet to be taken by another engrossing project that does not let me sleep the dark circles away. I have time now, I guess. With the stress gone, I see more clearly what life is. I am not charging ahead, heart bursting, breathless and with eyes on the prize and nothing else. Now, the prize, the purpose is gone and I instead take walks that ease me back into slow movements and quieter states of mind.

When your eyes are not on the prize, when there is no prize, you suddenly find yourself in possession of a peripheral vision and of the empathy that comes with it too. Working for your dreams can be a horribly self-absorbed thing sometimes, I realise.

Eyes on the prize. And nothing else.

So now, I notice that the neighbour’s kids have grown. They have a dog, too. The thyme in the garden has flourished, the daisies are blooming a radiant orange and with a tinge I notice the joy is fading a little from my Mother’s eyes.

At noon, I reach the point of hazy, unsettling loneliness and think Sundays are boring. Before, there was no room for boredom. Only space for: “I am soul-deep tired. I want to stop.” But now that there is nothing to do, my mind seeks out dreams covered in dust, like old diaries.

‘If I can’t create a new feeling,’ my mind reasons, ‘why not visit an old one?’

‘You used to fly kites, remember?’ goes the memory ‘You’d gaze at the cheap thing, all fluttering plastic and frail sticks tied with some piece of string you found in the garage, feeling so proud. But then your gaze would be lost somewhere between the clouds, in the valley between the green mountains and you’d think: “I wonder if someone else is flying a kite somewhere in the world?”

‘Greece,’ you thought, unknowing, uncaring of time-zones or geography. ‘Yes, Greece, with its statues and fables — mythology, actually— someone must be flying a kite there. Or China: dragons and great walls, emperors and dynasties. They must have beautiful kites there: large, red and gold in the shape of a dragon or a swan spanning grand wings in the sky, a crimson dot in the open world. 

It’s evening when, like the kites I used to fly, I am reeled back to Earth. Back to this feeling of Sunday boredom, this dull loneliness punctuated by music coming in from the neighbours, the drifting clouds, the obvious wanderlust, the soft orange skies of sunset and the smell of chicken in the stove.

Yeah, all that, that’s the fragrance: Eau de Boring Sunday.

And yet, I won’t make plans for next Sunday, just like I don’t for many, many Sundays of the year.


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I am a boring person, y’all.