november, xx.

A film, Sara’s Notebook, set in the Democratic Republic of the Congo and in it, a character named Sergio. A glass of rosé. 10.19 pm. Contemplating life’s synchronicities. I spend these early winter days in relative solitude and silence. Cooking and staying indoors. Watching noir films and sketching outlines of something of my own. Not sure what exactly yet; this and that. But the flow of it is what interest me now. Staying inspired, learning, soaking it all in. I like the noise of him returning home and when he refills the plate for a second time. Building blocks, slowly being placed atop each other. The synchronicities will take on a different shape with time.

november, xix.

Back to these. Something shorter and without pressure. I am redefining what a productive day means to me. Going for a walk, five or six kilometres in almost freezing temperatures. Making coffee and drinking it consciously. Cooking a meal for both of us with an intention. Not waiting for the right moment because it’ll never come; it’s always now. Reading for an hour or two even. Listening to an audiobook without drifting away after five minutes. Setting intentions. Knowing that I am not the body nor the mind. Focusing on living and not on being productive.

november, xv.

“Consider this: You can see less than 1% of the electromagnetic spectrum and hear less than 1% of the acoustic spectrum. As you read this, you are travelling at 220 km/sec across the galaxy. 90% of the cells in your body carry their own microbial DNA and are not “you.” The atoms in your body are 99.9999999999999999% empty space and none of them are the ones you were born with, but they all originated in the belly of a star. Human beings have 46 chromosomes, 2 less than the common potato. The existence of the rainbow depends on the conical photoreceptors in your eyes; to animals without cones, the rainbow does not exist. So you don’t just look at a rainbow, you create it.”

NASA Lunar Science Institute, 2012

On a similar note, I’m currently reading The Body: A Guide for Occupants by Bill Bryson and fully recommend it.

november, xi.

Dear Zindagi. It’s been a while since I could relate to a female character as much as I did with Kaira. It’s not just the mess of her life in general but the inability to get a message across despite being mostly a creative and compassionate individual. The anger and the resentment towards society. Abandonment at the centre of it, as always. Sometimes even being the abandonee. It works both ways, you know? The symbolism of seeing another person’s name everywhere even though that’s not what it is. The way we both listen to our own music in a loud, crowded club. The older male character who helps her sort out her life. Perhaps, the same way the guitarist filled his own version of the role in my life almost a decade back. It was all too familiar, dear life.

november, vi.

I used to be able to do this. Write simply and without restraints. I no longer can. There are stories brimming inside me, waiting to be put on paper. I am not sure what stops me. I am not sure why I am afraid. So if the words are ugly? What if it didn’t make sense in the beginning at all? The thing is to start.

Because of the way I have constructed in my head right now, I am not entirely sure I am holding up to the truth. Maybe it was all different. Maybe I’ve made it all sound nicer and better because I am afraid of what the truth was. That I knew all along but betrayed myself and still went through with it. I digress.

I am disrespecting myself by not writing. My own life. I started a series of short stories at the beginning of the year and I never finished it. There was too much London in it, too much of everything. I never completed the B&B story. I have never actually written anything at all and yet it is still all there waiting to be finished. It’s been eight years since I wrote the 2011 piece. All those pages of my life back then. How I used to live. Maybe it wasn’t all right, but my words actually used to spark an emotion.

What do I have now? Only this.

november, v.

Jack Johnson idealised Sunday mornings, banana pancakes, and living where the waves are for me. And I am okay with it. Every day I am somehow closer. I take the train to and from Kutná Hora, mostly back to Prague but sometimes also to Pardubice, Brno, and any other place that feels like it might make me feel better. I want what I have but I also dream of these ideals. Of living closer to the sea, of living less individualistically, and of not being afraid of failure.

november, iv.

In retrospect, the trip to London in May was paramount to what my life would become just weeks later. I didn’t know it then, of course, although, I did feel it. I definitely felt something. To feel sorry for myself would be pointless. This journey took seven years but I am here now. The exit is painless and wholesome. There’s no doubt. The sun tells me I am right. Enough with the emotional crumbs, it is time for a full meal. It feels so light to be free. This is what I wrote then and this is what carried me all the way here. It feels so good.