a week in my life? or more? stay tuned, I suppose
Nothing I’ve ever felt before truly surmounts to this. And if this is what peace feels like—if this is how a feeling fills my lungs and every single bone along with it, stuffing me with enough air—then this is it. This is actually it.
Was my sadness, my grief, all those moments where I sat on the floor beating my head, gasping for air, feeling like I was drowning in envy… just as full as this? Do my highs make up for my lows? I don’t know. I cannot think.
This is my life stretching itself out before me. My life has something—something I’ve never had before. Not meaning—no, not that—but something. It's not more than that or less. I sit here in this room and I have a smile on my face so wide and so giddy. The woman speaking so fluently and passionately about Chaucer and 18th century literature. I see her and I'm enthralled. When I am in this class I only see her. I only see my life. I've never felt so close to being better and bigger than who I am. The unfair proximity of a dream. You have no idea I've begged for this place and no matter how little it may seem to you or how insignificant but this is how I am. This is how absurdly in love I am with what I have right now in this moment. And no man pursuing a financially better degree, a degree that will fetch him a job better than mine, a man who thinks he has power over me because my dreams are less practical than his, no such man can threaten my peace, no shadow of “practicality” can take this from me, not today, not tomorrow, not when I'll have nothing in my hands, not ever.
Here's something brutally colloquial—
Morbid Monday,
Woke up late today. Late as ever. Shouldn't matter. Me or the time? Both (why not?). The glass on the window feels heavy like it could glide down like the water pouring on it. The moist wind pregnant with remorse blows the pitter patter straight onto my face from the sliding door left ajar overnight. Chills on the bottom of my feet (is this possible or am I making full use of my poetic licence?). I see magic in the way the sky breaks down and I see torture when I look down. Fuuuuuuuck I'm not going to college when it's flooding (a lie, for artistic satisfaction).
Squeezed myself in the tight jeans today. Dark blue, night sky blue, bloody mary seen from a blue lens blue, sexy when it's eating my thighs, sucking in the loose skin (liposuction?). Seductive in theory, but strangling in practice—devouring my thighs only to spit me out hollow. Throwing up on my face kind of, saying this because I feel like it today. Read Milton's poem on his blindness in class today— radical suffering. Everything, all that wet jeans and wet shoes and muddy bagpack is worth it if just for a while. Worth it to see my cheeks turn red because of the wide smile I have put on. Just for a while I'm awake.
Torment Tuesday,
Snooze. I've heard that alarms make you dumber, or that it can kill you slowly. Doesn't help. Woke up seconds after. Sprained my neck (ow). Wearing mummy's kurti today. Light yellow, babyish, extremely fantastical and sweet. A-line, isn't tight on the waist and god if only it were. My head looks too small in the mirror and body looks like a box. If I was awake yesterday, I'm dead today, might as well be frantic. Silly little predictable princess. Can fathom anything but seeing what I see in the mirror each day. It's ok, it's ok, it's ok. It's ok because the girls I see everyday in class won't know I'm this close to feasting on my fat skin just to get it to go away. Cupcake body. Tond— तोंद— the south asians, and the desis are having a laugh right now. I have a hideous tond, तोंद— for all that it's worth, it means tummy or belly i suppose. I'm all over the the place today. And watching two even more hideous films certainly doesn't help much. Mummy and her movie taste against the world (against us mainly).
Weary Wednesday,
Why shouldn't i dye my hair red? Starting today's entry with a solid question. A solid question because on the overview it seems like something futile but when you really ponder over it, you'll realize I might not have full autonomy over my body. What lies ahead is a mess, tangled earphones, tangled laces, tangled hair, tangled together—you and i, tangled thoughts, if i may. Tiny little hair popping out of the stained skin of my arms and legs, they're coming back silently, like they think I won't notice. Classic, ignore the biggest threat always because you're too busy underestimating them. I pay attention to things most people ignore. Why do I feel like I'm less of woman when there's hair on my skin? Sike, I don't. Maybe, I do. I won't confess. I'm not a bad feminist. Neither was fleabag but who cares. College campus sits on its tiptoes today, like a beautiful sly ballerina. Like poetry. Red bricks and short grass. Like a dream I'm touching, grabbing, smothering.
Tortured Thursday,
No amount of kissy face emojis can make me feel like myself again. Floating outside my body and looking at her getting ready for college. Big day. Interview. Film and media society. Film discussion member. Professional letterboxd personified. She'll sit on the stairs before going in. She's violent like that. She'll practice saying her name, whispering the introduction to herself, mumbling like she doesn't know who she is. Existentialism. Hi, I'm Arunima, I'm a literature student and I applied for the post of film discussion member. Hi, I'm— nothing I have ever done including this is this serious so shut it. Shut up. Shut up you girl who talks to herself. Shut up you girl who pretends to be confident but isn't afterall. Shut up you rusting iron mirrorball.
Freaky Friday (I had to),
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday— blah blah blah. Friday, I'm in love. I'm not. I haven't been in love in over 575 days. I still have your things. You have mine. Do you miss me? I know I don't. I don't miss you or the idea of you, I think of you everyday— morbid, soft, and grotesque. You won, if it still concerns you. There wasn't a bet between us but you won nonetheless. I talk about you to every person I meet, I tell them I hated being with you, loathed the version I became with you, but, I still think of you like a damned daughter would. The internet diagnosed me with being avoidant. If it answers you, your endless questions, your questions I didn't answer but I wasn't scared of (just know that). Stop mocking me. Stop tormenting me. Stop being you while I'm slowly becoming someone else. Wait and tell me, when is the right time to stop? To stop writing about something that happened ages ago? When does not stopping starts becoming embarrassing? My breath feels stale in my throat. My hands shake under the hollow weight of your hand.
Sorrow Saturday,
Lecture at 11. European classical literature. Lysistrata. Women going on a sex strike. Interesting. 7 bloody pages written with hands on the verge of bleeding. Girls' common room. There are moments when I walk into the room and I see myself sitting on the last bench. Giggling away and forever listening to a best friend. I skip her. I don't reach her. I sit on the first bench this time. It's crazy to think how much has changed between these seats. We're 6 seats, 6 years, 6 lifetimes apart. My baby. My embarrassing baby. My baby who changed every year, sometimes too little to notice and sometimes disastrous. All my years are like jigsaw pieces (jigsaw falling into the place?), too rough on the edges so none of them fit into the bigger picture. I'm not a mosaic afterall. I'm changing as we speak, falling down like dominoes, bursting open like flower buds, sliding down like lava, blowing up like smoke. That volatility is what makes me electric. I'm crusty at my core.
Sonder Sunday,
Nothing humbles me like Sundays. When you're waking up at a time you don't decide, your schedule decides for you. I cannot wake up anytime after 8, my body is so used to being thrown right on the edge. Edge. Edge of the seat. And thinking about how the feeling of having tomorrow is just like the one I had a week before this one. Jagged. Messy. Messy is corny. Words to avoid 101. Anyways, I'm sitting on the edge or on the toilet seat and thinking about how different life would've been or about how I should go back to sleep, all the while I'm scrolling on my phone. A part of me is happy because we'll get to read Emily Dickinson tomorrow. My woman. Can't wait to sit on the first bench again and raise my arm up to tell the class about Emily, facts they never signed up for. God, I'm such a bore.
Final act : Death of the weak week,
This is what a week in my heels would've, could've, and should've comprised of—
A photograph of how happy I am
Try peri peri fries from the campus cafe
Call a favourite friend up just because
Buy a new dark lipgloss that doesn't make me look ugly
Make notes two steps ahead because academic validation is the only truth
Edit a video for the film club that showcases your personality. My personality in 15 seconds?
Log a movie in on letterboxd and behave like a loner incel cinephile
Regret sharing pinterest with friends because now they know you're cringe
Regret going in for a hug when they were just going to shake my hand
Regret making a misandrist joke
Regret eating chili potato
Regret talking too loud
Regret talking too much
Regret talking at all
Regret
Regret
Regret.
Ps. You aren't reading this, old friend, but you would've been happier than me when I finally got my first converse earlier this month. Everytime I wear them, which is everyday, I feel like calling you up again. Missing you a little extra today.
And so we part again, dear readers, until next time xx
"Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell" - My woman
ur genuinely so cool and talented like what??????
oh my god i love love this. it’s so vivid?!? beautiful