Date: 9/1/2012 10:14:00 PM
A large glass door separates the hall from the balcony. The TV is on, on mute, playing songs on 9XM. I am pacing in the balcony, thinking of Kerouac after Big Sur and getting fed up with the world. I am thinking if and when I get enough of the world – and everyone must at some point of time reach there, I would not shut myself in a room – with shades drawn all day long. Instead I will lock myself in the balcony, on 6th floor. Not too far, not too close to the world. I will keep an eye out – people can get boring, but there are other things you can see from a balcony. Drink in the cold air, that freezes you further – accelerates the stupid upper-tract infection. Lets you sneeze on everything, everyone under the balcony, without worrying about anything else.
Maybe I would listen to Nine Inch Nails on a loop, with some tracks by Nirvana switching in at random. And think of all the conversations that I should have had – but did not have because it wasn’t worth getting angry, because I thought its better to be sad with oneself than shower someone else with my anger, with my emotion – no one is worth the investment. Once you been hurt, there isn’t much point in following it up, you just live with the scar, isn’t it? Or so I thought then.
Once a very dear friend, a then very dear friend, told Sofia that he saw me hit my mom. Of course, I had never done so. Much later, when we were out of school – he confessed that nothing of the sort happened, but the group was worried that Sofia needs to be shielded from me – I would only use her up. Teenagers are odd, what they see is some strange variation of the truth – that does not even make sense to themselves as they grow up.
Anyways, so when Sofia told me what she had been told. I called up this friend and asked him what he was talking about – I was sure Sofia misunderstood something, after all, this friend had a stammer. And he said, naah – I did not even talk to the girl! It was a rude shock, and me think it really doesn’t pay to talk to people. Really, it’s just not worth the effort – nobody gives a damn what you feel, what you look like, or whatever else. Better spend your time in the balcony, trying to write a story in which the reality keeps continuously slipping and time keeps stretching out rather than reaching an end.