After a string of failures, throughout the whole year, I have come home. The tree trunks haven’t
grown any wider. A soft music fills the air underneath the green canopy in the backyard though. And of course there is the onset of winter.
Early morning the fog tears apart to show long lanes of coconut trunks. Drops of dew hanging from the bark and nascent sunlight.
An hour later the soil is dried up. The trees are out of their sleep and brown dead grass shows itself at a distance.
I sit down and begin to write on a yellowed page of my diary
“I want to die with this thought
clutched close to my heart
that once, through these years
your heart tilted towards …”
I am too unsure of the word after towards. I don’t write it.
This is a letter again, I am writing, from one fictitious person to another. From one girl in the hills to her dying elder cousin, from a mother to her crazy baby daughter, from a wild heart to her lover. I have loved the cover of anonymity. Nobody can blame you for whatever you’ve written because you were but another person when you wrote it all. Sometimes I also felt like a hypocrite, shouldn’t one stand by what someone writes?
But I’ve always hated questions because I’ve been unable to answer them. My palms go sweaty, feet tremble. I felt it all so much all over again that I felt I would fall off my chair.
I opened the diary again. I wanted to write something in it. I wanted to write a book. A book that’ll undo all my failures, this winter.