My head aches. It moves up from my forehead, to the top of my head, and radiating towards the ears, as if the headband of my earphones are channels through which the pain travels. I assume that a cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso would help, and that is why I am sitting here at the Cafe on a seat I would otherwise not have chosen. In the midst of this pain and general inconvenience at being in society and having to see people and hear their voices, I place my faith in writing, believing earnestly that the cure to my headache and my malaise and apathy will be found in opening my blog and writing something down.
The pain isn’t helping, and the noise is unbearable; I will write about one thing, just one subject, one theme, one memory. And I will write it down as it is, dirty and painful.
I will write about how my brain feels ‘stuck’ and how it bothers me.
A few days ago, I was walking down the road that leads to the rest of the campus from my hostel. This road is special in that it is always grey. Not like how we feel grey sometimes, but grey in colour. The vista is heartbreaking and depressing, to see this road covered in dust and fine soil dropped by the many trucks which carry material for construction, pods of trees which have been embedded to the asphalt by the weight of these trucks, the occasional heap of cow dung. Walking on this road, it seems to me, would reduce your lifespan by a few minutes every hundred meters. I was walking down the road, brooding over something, when I was convinced that my brain was in fact slowing down, and at times, getting stuck.
TBC