M. came over yesterday. We talked, it was sweet —sad mostly. I managed to get off work early and went to McD to get her a strawberry sundae (it is very hot nowadays, ice cream is very much in order). M. seemed to cheer up a little at the offering. M. has been reading Iqbal lately and so brought it with her. I flipped through the volume, the cover was atrocious. M. complained about it being a 'selection' rather than a compilation or an anthology. I humored her woes. We share a rather elitist desire for the 'authentic' always. It amused me. I addressed the question, "Have you been writing?" to her back as I walked her to do the door. She answered in her usual self-depreciating manner; "In a small journal", "Just things on my mind", "I don't even know what they're about" and left it at that. I quietly wonder what she writes about (a constant thing that used to burn in my mind). I kept thinking about the letter I sent her Monday evening. I regret the letter. Then again, I regret being honest about myself all the time. We parted ways listless but amicable. Life is hard, we decided, but what is one to do other than to forge on?
M. said we should just run away. I said "There is nowhere to run to." I would know. I tried. It was a nightmare, I will not try that again. One cannot simply up and leave. The world presses unto you, claws at you when you try to break free. It's not like in the movies. You only feel weightless for a moment, and then the storm comes. The shitstorm comes. You get endless phone calls from family and workplace. People look for you. They demand that you come back home, back into life, and then suddenly you're at square one again, right where you started. Except now you've made a mess of things and you feel a little older, a little wiser and a lot sadder. The kind of sad you cannot shake off easily because when one runs away, one had decided to be free and when that coveted freedom is denied. . . something inside of you breaks. It's hard to fix those cracks.
It is not easy to disappear. The only way to rile against life is to be hopeful. To be so wildly hopeful that it makes you endure.
Honestly, this whole not-writing thing has made me quite desperate so here I am. . . easing some thoughts off my mind. I find myself wanting to say, "Stay" to people sometimes but of course, I don't (I never do). Also, I don't sleep well anymore. I've stopped feeling angry all the time though, rather, now I am quite resigned to whatever happens to me. It's comforting in a way. In an effort to well, simply make more of an effort at life, I try to make people happy. I keep hoping that their happiness will move me. . . as if picking up the tab for a meal for three is an act of bravery. . . well, it does lighten my heart somewhat. And surprising S. with those roses on Wednesday night did make my heart pound. S. appreciates flowers a lot so. It felt good to see her again. S. is like Day to my Night. What a contrast, but it works and I will remain extremely fond of her for all time I think.
I tell myself, sometimes you need to exist for you. Damn the world. Just be kind anyhow, somehow.