About a year and a half ago, I wrote frequently in my diary which I'd named 'The Adventures of the Girl in the Disposable Poncho'. It contained mainly short stories and poetry and an occasional rant. The concept was to keep an account of my days and to serve as an outlet for pent up teenage energy, and still be indecipherable to nosy classmates (and parents). So what I did was, I picked the most significant event from that day and wove a story around it. And it is this book which contains the most accurate account of my first kiss ( and yet no one reading it would know, because everything in the diary is just a 'story' anyway). Perhaps one day when I am emotionally distant enough to those experiences, when they are no more than just stories to me, I will post them here. But for now they belong in my diary.
No, the point of this post is not to describe my diary. That would make a shitty post wouldn't it? Well anyhow, to the point.
As I flip through the pages of this unadorned exercise book, I look through how the events of the past year have changed me to a point where I feel uncomfortable spying on myself. My stories revolved around an unusual plethora of people and situations, a girl confused about what to do with her dog once she has decided to get out of her live in relationship, people trying to distract themselves while walking up and down a hallway, whatnot.
But the story which fascinates me the most now is one of Champa, a prostitute, who has fallen in love with a criminal who shows up at her doorstep, drunk of course, every night, professing his love. She does not mind when he wakes up each morning a stranger to her, all she needs is the false promise a love like hers brings. Un corazon que se muere por dar amor.
What is strange is that I seem, in these pages, to have a kind of vitality, a kind of childish maturity, like that of Sara Crewe when she refused to cry, and a different kind of understanding of everything that I was going through. Perhaps it has become too easy to deal with emotions without letting them get in the way of work, but these pages record the time when I learnt that it was possible.
Strange huh?
Stranger that any eloquence fails me at the thought of reconnecting with my past?
Perhaps in a year I will look at this post and reflect on the rough edges in this post and in my mind and think how insignificant the objects of my wonder were. Anyhow, good night. Starting 'Ostrich with a twist' tomorrow with my favourite series of all time : Twilight!
Just kidding, I cant stand twilight( another post on that later).
The Chronicles of Narnia up next.
No comments:
Post a Comment