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Today is December 20th, 2020. Second last Sunday of this year. This year was tough and during these tough times, I wrote a couple of short posts that signify my struggle. I apologize in advance if they make you sad. 😇
This first one is called -
It’s Just One of Those Nights
It's just one of those nights when loneliness hits you so hard that you don't feel anything else. You just want someone to talk to and someone to hear you rant. Someone to absorb your stupid monologue, not just for the sake of it, but to understand how alone you feel on this godforsaken rock hurtling through time and space.
You just want to pretend like you're a baby and throw tantrums because of life's never-ending supply of lemons. How much lemonade do you make? Even tequila shots stop helping after some time. You just want someone to hold you in their arms and pacify you. You just want to lie down in someone's lap and let them brush your hair with their hands as they give you a bunch of fake consolations which you already know aren't true but you still feel safe and content for those few minutes believing in them.
It's just one of those nights that the room is so silent that you can hear the almost silent fan spinning above your head and the grasshoppers chirping on the lawn outside. If you tune out these sounds using noise-canceling headphones, you'll probably be able to hear your own heartbeat or the blood rushing around in your body.
You start thinking about your life so far. How did you end up here? Why didn't you work it out with your ex? Why don't you have more friends living close by? How is it that despite all the friends that you have, you don't feel like sending a text message or talking to anyone of them?
It's just one of those nights.
This second piece is a tribute to my love for Haruki Murakami and his style of writing which more often than not, I try to emulate.
Its called -
“Do you know what's the scariest part of being alone?”
“It's that you might actually start loving it.”
Independence is addictive. Give me an empty house, it doesn't even have to be huge or luxurious. Just a room big enough for a double bed, a kitchen where I could cook, a tiny bathroom with a shower, a small living room with my desk setup where I would be hunched over writing about my loneliness, the stories that keep popping up in my head and… you.
I'd wake up early every day, fix myself a cup of black coffee and take it to my desk where I'd start writing at the break of dawn. No distractions, just the cool breeze of the morning and the clicking of the keys. I'd then fix up a little meal that I'd call lunch and then read for the rest of the day. I'd workout behind my desk set up in the evening and then have another home-cooked meal for dinner before stepping out for errands. I'd buy vegetables, milk, eggs, coffee beans, and anything else that I need and come back home and retire to bed early.
That's what Murakami's protagonists usually do. I'd love to be one. Somewhere in Tokyo's suburbs.
Alone, melancholic and beautifully described.
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See you next week with another short story. 👋
- Darshan Pania