Kiana

I have walked every night at exactly 11 PM since last week, and I have read three books authored by women. I liked the latter part of that sentence. I liked reading books written by women. I liked swimming in ideas sprung from their brains. Among these great pieces of literature is The Bell Jar, which has brought me solace and warmth on my 11 PM walks. On these walks, whenever I pass a manhole or an open street canal, I always accidentally get a sniff of the heavy, putrid stench of the city’s wastes. My walks are lonely—my old friend loneliness is back in my system and I seem to like it. At least I have a companion, even if it’s a rather despondent, cloudy one.

I have tried talking to my friends, but no one understands. It’s just me with this debilitating coldness seeping into my bones. It’s a surprise that I even managed to pad my fingers heavily on my keyboard as I type this. Everything comes as a surprise now.

For now, this is enough. I am trying my best to make room for the loneliness, and I’ll leave it at that until due time, whenever that is. One day, all of my memories will soften, and the bloodshed inside me will cease. ♦