Another day started with me flinging bed-sheets around, yawning without covering up my mouth, sneaking into the refrigerator for eggs and breaking the latter into a pan I had used last night for frying soggy potatoes from yesterday. My life, I tell you, more or less rotates about papers after papers of incomplete stories, written in an extremely bad handwriting, and freely readily available stocks of eggs, caffeine and chocolates.
This might give you an impression of myself being an owner of a flourishing career of that of a successful writer who struts about continents philosophizing people, who came first, “the egg or the chicken?” But no, that is exactly the kind of writing I am running away from!
Luckily for me, I just happened to belong to a well to do family, which from a personal point of view is a good thing to happen to someone. But if you look at my life from around the table, you would wonder had I been poorer with tatty clothes and marred expressions on, would I have understood the ups and downs of life any better? For as they say what success is without failures! And therefore no matter how hard I try to tell people, who by the way always look at me mysteriously for my choice of such a distinguished profession, unlearning needs more patience than learning, they don’t ever believe me.
Since childhood, I had points to prove to people who would never listen to me talking and perhaps, this prompted me into hiding my books on Biology into a cupboard and, out of the mess I call my wardrobe, taking out a typewriter. I don’t know why I think people will hear me better if I wrote to them than if I approached them, looking all weird and out of place, and broke on them my deluge of conflicting words.
I can tell you I am amazing because to do the same things every day and call yourself a bore is so what everyone does.
It is stupid how I do nothing and yet can talk on my favorite subject, which is I, all the freaking times. But only because the last time I met my psychiatrist he told me obsession of any kind is a bad disorder to have, I shall try to include in this blog someone else’s stories as well.
My best friend who drinks and smokes and does all those cool things that I never had the guts to do is one hell of an awesome woman. She doesn’t understand anything between New York and Nairobi and yet she is as impressive as anyone with an IQ above 130 could be.
Does she ever get afraid of people or circumstances? She does all the time but then she sticks a Marlboro between her stained lips, strikes it up and watches confusion and fear burn on the edge of her cigarette. That is her style of outdoing life.
I meet her often! She is in sales. I don’t know what she does in a bank because she really is someone you would expect to find near a beach; sniffing on fish curries and pulling deep long puffs of whatever is available,
Every time I ask her what she does in a bank, she smiles, ruffles my hair and says, “You think I have an idea?”
So I have altogether stopped forcing a conversation about work with her. I think at a deeper level the entire idea of working in a bank and being just another someone aggravates her a lot. But I don’t blame her for this reluctance because personally, I think, the only thing she could ever be great at is being a gypsy.
She would make a fine specimen of a gypsy!
When it comes to love, there is always a new boy in the town and an older one, leaving the same town. Between their arrival and departure, if you think she doesn’t care for the boys, you don’t know anything about her, not yet. For her love is a field where one runs wild with a ball in their hands and no matter how many times one loses one gets up, picks the ball over and runs for their life, one more time.
Probably this is a marathon that never ends. The good thing is she always participates.