Thursday, October 4, 2012

functions of solitude

Clean up after your dog, it says everywhere here. Or there's an eighty buck fine. Which comes to a lot, but I have to keep reminding myself not to convert everything. In the supermarket, or at stores. I also have to keep reminding myself not to think of my very own shedding monstrous furball all the time. The very thought of him makes walks and bus rides a tad bit difficult.

I arrived here at the beginning of fall, and leaves line sidewalks every morning and evening. Roads look different at different times of the day though. Days and evenings look different themselves, days being more bearable and evenings - well, not even close. The beauty of this city - the zigzagging traffic, the millions of boots mapping their way around and so many words of kindness shared daily, with the knowledge that they might get lost in the humdrum of another weekday - would have been a little more wonderful and intriguing, had thoughts of home not been such regular visitors.

They say that you can feel London winter right through your bones. As is the case with London loneliness. And the fact that when you stare at the clock ticking 21.46, thinking to yourself that it's already tomorrow back home is no easy feeling to live with. What dreams I must be missing. Sleep in the last week and a half has been absolutely dreamless. They have been elusive.

Some home cooked food lines your shelves. You don't touch it. Touching it would make home even more real. It would make your childhood and teenage, so much more tangible. 

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