I have been
hard on myself since then. Seasonal
wind came and went and, as days turned into nights and the cycle repeated
itself, I didn’t remember, and still don’t, feeling either the heat, warmth or
coldness the weather have brought along, or have changed. Not because I have
regarded the weather as a trivial thing, but, maybe, my brain has been occupied
and, for some weirdly good reasons, I don’t see it an advantage wasting my
human emotions with the weather.
Not for
today, yet! When the weather comes so harshly, to a degree that I couldn’t help
ignore it. The sky has been rigid dark, absurdly, all days long since the
morning—since my eyes caught sight of it. And not after a minute I have decided
to cold-heartedly and effortfully drag myself out of bed and flopped into washing
room, the rain, which fell boisterously last night, starts to pour once again. The washing room
is a tiny downstairs, for-all room with
a traditional set of shower, considered obsolete by some, a toilet tub, a
half-watered bucket which
had a water-cup floating on it, a shelf,
under a mirror, filled with two toothbrushes (both are mine; I’d like to keep,
for a personal reason, the old one there), a long toothpaste box which is thin
at the tail and a piece of soap that was eroding days after days. Into the
mirror, I saw myself: flesh that covers my body, my beardy face that is
embedded with thin blacky shadow—well, if you look closely—and, I hate to
mention this, many other things on my body; not to
mention the black spot on my lower lip, which people whom I know intimately
tease to be a sign of me being good at, amongst other things, talking and
cursing, and that is so contradict to the reality in which a simple me doesn’t
talk so much—at least since then.
