A Piece of Me

When growing up, a teacher—Miss Dorothy asked me to keep a journal with me. This tome lies flat on my desk, bent corners and monochrome composition of the binding is slowly fading, as everyone I know. When looked inside—filled with undaunted words, some left in half, some in full. A release from a stressful day, I could write about whatever I chose, flipping thin pages of this rusty book, I could see my futile attempts to assassinate a fancy prose, I would try so hard on a sunny day resting on my squeaking wooden chair.

It is my memory palace; I could revise pretty much every little experience I had since my elementary school. Just like how I would ride my small crimson-colored bicycle to the neighboring town, following a winding dirt path. I would toss my bicycle near the base of an Apple tree and sit on the curved branches making a small seat, just for me. I would contemplate the world around me, let the sweet sadness to linger and share it with my friend, who has never spoken a word to me, but I could understand the unconditional love over the juicy bites of a fresh apple. Along the process of growing up, where my apple tree once stood tall, even with the burden of my daily complaining: that spot has now converted into a commercial block.

This old book is a palette of my every little experience and memories, constituting what kind of a person I used to be. I wish I could write about Bruce Wayne as if my personal opinion would be featured in the next newspaper followed by the terms as a successful entrepreneur, boy genius, prince charming to those hopeful women, and above all--Batman. Then again, those claims would be outright lies, at worst, gross embroidery. When flipping through the pages entitled with the paper pins, marking the best day and worst days of my existence on this planet, I try to look for simple answers, yet I always stumble upon complex questions.

Once in a day in my life span, engulfed in thought if rotating in a capsule at the speed of light would keep me younger, I realized I left my guitar at home while on my way to guitar practice. My mother often used to say I don’t think, well this time her sentiment was clearly indicative. Always indulged in fantasy, I would often tragically lose the track of reality; then again it is equally tragic if one loses the touch of fantasy when absorbed in reality. During my visits in a nursing home, to check up on my old friend—Tanveer, who taught me a lot of valuable lessons in life, and made me realize how little I know about this world. While playing Chess, he once told me, everything in life comes in pairs. Nothing is perfect. Day and night, yin and yang, hot and cold, tall and short, hot and cold, good and bad, however you identify them, it will always be in comparison with the other. Find the thing that has no comparison, which set off many on a path of endless melancholy and unfortunate. Myriad of people would assume that two entities with exclusive same qualities bear a healthy relationship. That is not all true. In fact, dichotomies are totally dependent on each other, having faith. One without other is useless like a worn out coat you want to get rid of so badly in greed of getting a new glittering one. There always be a doubt, but what is faith without doubt? They won’t exist without each other.


Sekki said...

My favorite writer, right there.

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