A life cut short in so many ways.
A song hums in the background; a balding greasy Iraqi laments...
“He loves another, and I’ve let him love another. I lift my soul and throw it in the fire. I lift my soul and throw it in the fire. And what has happened to me would not happen”.
I keep expecting myself to suddenly fit into this new world. To have all the jigsaw puzzles fit, and not get lost, bewildered or astounded by this loveliness. The ‘v’ could just as easily be replaced by an ‘n’.
One thing I’ve noticed about these capital city types is their brute determination in every aspect of life. It scares me to be quite honest...watching their angry walking, their efficient hair, and even the viciousness of the way they eat- almost leads me to believe they are fighting and pushing in every aspect of life- a life that is not to be enjoyed but grappled with.
I don’t think they believe in happy endings or the slow roll of days. They believe in squeezing every second for what it’s worth.
But strangely enough, everyone is unbelievably kind and helpful. I’m not sure if I look like I am permanently in need of help, or if this charitable nature is overlooked by the quick steps and sharp turns.
A sight that somehow never (and I mean never) fails to make me smile is the underground at ‘peak times’. I cannot suppress the bubble of laughter that forms in my throat. It reminds me of busy Thursday souks, the only difference being the atmosphere. The souk has a comical anger, and the stench of sweat and grease is always prevalent.
Whereas the Underground smell is laced with designer perfumes, and the anger is cold and quiet- the type that frankly sends shivers down my spine.
Perhaps this is only an onslaught of homesickness, brought on by a slight excess in free time...exams are over, and now that my mind is relatively more relaxed and free, it (unfortunately) gave me more time to think about life, current affairs etc.
“The tiredness of years has been lost of him. I wish just to forget him. The soul is saddened by him, but to love him, she is forced. “
(Look at how easily the word count rises and rises. Why can’t the many essays piling up be as easily written? :D)