Saturday,
March 21.
Listen, the world is not ending anytime soon, while you sit by and watch the rain fall tirelessly into the depths of empty streets, strangely you’ll feel at ease. This isolation should be imposed on people regardless of the state the world is in. I feel maybe like me, some might feel like staring into a hopeless distance while the sound of their roof is being drummed to a sing-song.
While some may write letters, like I do, only because I feel compelled to write letters that withhold the name of the people it is addressed to. Letters that are personal, yet make sense to others as they read them, filling them with hopes. Not singular but many.
Someone will probably wait, think of the moments that pass by and fearing to not give them up so plainly, attach something of significance to it. A certain melancholy, or smell or a distant sound and then fold it into a neatly ironed memory. Afterwards, it will remain true as I am tempted to admit thay things will come together at their worst.
While those that run out of paper, ink or energy lie in their beds and are indulged in stories of past, present of future— will not be left behind to weigh the debt to mankind.
It is what we owe to ourselves, that we find ourselves at intersections of our own company to seek things that are trivial or important or plain stupid. That we hold on to things as we recall them and pull them out of our minds as they swim towards a great nothingness.
I should tell you, that with the rain pouring sharply into our eyes and then our hearts, I remember things that make my heart sway like a ship in a heavy storm. I remember her, at the balcony door that I left ajar, begging me to come inside because the wind was starting to get chilly.
There’s cold wind blowing this evening, and rain, as I keep saying is falling tirelessly.
—ubair.