Skip to main content

Little and a Lot.

I'm quite stressed. Don't ask me what about. There's no one to ask, but regardless, don't. My head is so full of heat and frustration, like a tiny string threatening to snap, only to humiliate my character in the worst way possible.

I didn't do that. Three days ago, I bought ice cream, put it in the freezer, and forgot all about it. I love forgetting sometimes. Birthdays, not so much. But ice cream, I will forever.

I love forgetting that we get ice cream on Fridays in the mess. I let myself forget to reserve that surprise and the joy. It alleviates me of any stress.

Just that thin layer of chocolate cracking at the smallest pressure of my teeth, digging into the vanilla ice cream and tasting it. My brain is still overheating, but my mouth is cool. I can stay semi-levelheaded. Not that I need ice cream to stay sane, but it sure helps.

I'm still pissed off, but something about the small things, the simple things, the sweet things, changes my mood in an instant. I have about eight minutes to publish this, and I quite honestly don't have much to say. I got another opportunity to work on a poster with my friend, and we were working on it and still are.

It's quite complex juggling each other's interests, fonts for one, then conceptual ideas too. But for the most part, it's been nice. It's nice to see the different perspectives we have. The inches off the border, and how they are fine with a certain amount while I am not. It seems so little, but it's a lot.

Most of the designing is intuitive; it's just about what feels right, kind of like how grammar is to me. I am rambling away for the sake of consistency, which brings us to the topic of quantity and quality, which perhaps I will talk about in the next blog. Goodbye.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Varuthaayi.

"വരാം," ഞാൻ പറയുമ്പോൾ, "പോകാം" എന്ന് പറയാനുള്ള ആ പേടി. My legs prickle like the seeds of a strawberry, and I feel like tearing myself apart today. I keep picking at the wound that heals every two days, only for it to break open again—blood and flesh. I feel trapped in my own skin, my body will never be what I want it to be. There are things I’m supposed to become, but time is slipping away. I applied for many things. I have sent my name into the void—eight, ten, how many more? They have to call me today. If not, I won’t be who I need to be. Tomorrow, I’ll be hopeless again. I can’t hold on to who I am, so how will time hold on to me? I eat the yellow as if it might bring some joy. One piece is thin and crispy, the bite sounds, and I feel it. The next is thick and bland—someone like me must have cut it. One is unexpectedly sweet, even though it isn’t brown like I expected. How it lies to me. I look in the mirror, I look away. Another is too salty. I eat 250 grams of ...

Permission to Dream.

I had a dream. I ran out of the airport, got into a taxi, then out again, and ran. I ran so fast, yet my left lung didn’t pinch. I ran home. The company house I had called home for so long. I told them it was technically my tharavad. They laughed, and I understood why. But I knew every inch of that place. The way my feet could map the cool tile floors, the small gaps between them, the familiar weight of the air inside, the walls that had seen me through everything. I opened the door, and everything was just as we had left it. It was a dream. It’s been a while since I dreamed. And yet, this one felt jarring—not in a way that unsettled me, but in the way that it confirmed something. I knew I was heading home. I knew the airport, I knew my destination. But as I stepped inside, I felt as though it was telling something. Telling me.  That I could call it home. That I had permission to call it home.

Reaching. Reaching.

What I reached for so long revealed itself today. In the trees, I find peace in the green—to feel small for once, even as the problems of my heart rise as high as the trees. For a moment, they float. They give me purpose. They make me a person when I am struggling to be one.   These trees have saved lives.   So many feelings overwhelm me; my head aches. I dropped her off at the airport, and my room was ill with the scent of home, so I strayed as far as I could while staying as close as I could (to the place I knew most in this foreign land). I stretched out on the stone bench—edit after edit—taking my mind off things. The deer looked at me thrice.   I feel.   I felt as a child. They have revolutionary thoughts, some psychedelic revelation. I was twelve—why did it have to be this way? Three parts torn into to get the fruit. Three different ways: one tries to become a tree, the other shrivels up and dries, and the third, a different color, holds a l...