I’m already bored. I haven’t even started and I’m already bored of what I’m going to write. This is the real problem, isn’t it? The division between the thoughts taking shape in my head and the editor waiting at my fingertips. The membrane between both, within which I attempt to write, is almost nothing. Or rather, it’s too thick, and I am an ant trying to swim through it, never making it to the other, less viscous side.
But I’m not even trying to be a writer anymore. I’m trying to live. To not lie when asked what’s going on in my life. To not want to say I don’t know, or it’s a whole other conversation. Too many layers of cellophane, so that the world is always receding, even though I am in it. This morning I almost considered trying to write an obituary for my self, as a desperate prompt to record what matters.
I like reading. Reading gives me something, writing gives me nothing these days—
This morning I woke with a feeling of elsewhere. Last evening was spent deep cleaning T’s flat. I’ve more or less been his roommate this last month, even though I have my own flat (from where I’m writing this currently), a 10 minute bus-ride away from Deptford. But his flatmate had gone home for 3 weeks and we had seized the opportunity to cohabitate without having to deal with the always lingering tension between said flatmate and I. The situation between us is tense, to say the least. Like living with a wounded predator, choosing to live besides its den. I can’t tell how I feel about him exactly. I absolutely prefer not being around him at all. We had a massive showdown in December where he exploded at me. But then we hugged and he even wept with feeling. He said he loved Indians, he said I had a great laugh. But he said he couldn’t live with me around. And that he didn’t want that to sour his relationship with T. I can see how much T means to him. But I also feel like forcing him to acknowledge that I am part of T now.
So many buts. Brain is not used to writing. Brain or body or mind who can tell. I’ve started running recently. I’m hesitant to say this because it’s only been three days. I quit easily—I’ve quit four months into yoga before. There’s been a real difference though, on a physical level. Proof that my body is waking up. The last jog was revelatory—when I attempted the same route day before yesterday I was on the verge of tears. Every part of me stating that I was not a runner. Not meant for this. The resentment towards my girlfriends kept increasing. They’d both gone through bodily transformations in the last three years, and I had never imagined my best friend committing to the journey. I kept telling myself that they were falling for a dangerous mindset, prioritising thinness and gym culture. I didn’t need that. I could judge them instead.
Yet just by day two of the run I could understand what she was talking about. The endorphins are undeniable. My drugless body suddenly feeling flush with something else. Something pushing me from behind, as if I was a machine being winded up and let go. And more importantly for me, something to beat time.
Where have I reached with all this meandering? Mind is always running before I can catch up, tripping me. You know what I don’t want to do? I don’t want to tell myself that this is the first step — this disconnected, incoherent, shallow writing. That I need to do this to get myself to write something better. Says who? Who decided there were steps? Who can I trust here? I don’t need a step by step program. It’s never worked for me. But that’s not to say that I don’t need order.
It seems the point I have reached is centred on impulse. Impulse is all I can trust. Impulse is completely in the now, uncontaminated, real. What had Nietzsche said about urges?
Last night I had trouble falling asleep. It was nagging me that I had only agreed to clean the flat with T because I had no idea what else to do with my time, because I was still choosing to ignore the reality of not having a job. Impulse, again. Of course, I had also been looking forward to taking out any and all traces of my hair in his room by myself. I had hoovered around the plants, then watered our plants, then mopped the floor. The room felt different by the end—like the air had been cleansed, like the plants were sending their thanks. It was prayer ready, so I prayed before sleeping. I also felt I owed him this, as he had cleaned most of my previous flat when we vacated. He had lived there in similar circumstances, my then flatmate having moved out to America to not deal with our tension. Funnily, T had ended up doing the bulk of the tasks while I took upon bathroom cleaning and ended up getting high on toxic fumes while being butt naked and cleaning 3 percent of the whole bathroom.
But I didn’t end up sleeping. My stomach was bad. We had a hearty meal for dinner: T cooked Ful Medames, broccoli, salmon and rice, and we watched another episode of PEN15 and talked about our dads. I ate too quickly. We downed a phenomenon of a mango right after that, and by the time I was in bed I knew my mistakes were going to cost me. T gave me an antacid and I sat on the toilet, farting and reading Substack. And thinking, when will I write? Will I ever write? How can I break this question completely apart and rework its meaning to get at the right one?
When I did manage to fall asleep, I was besieged by a nightmare the likes of which I hadn’t had in a long while.
I woke up to a green, wet morning, and thought I was in Delhi or Goa. London had been wet before, but never this lush. I was at peace, and slower and cleaner.
By day 5, I had quit running altogether.