Sep 2016
Those fat beams of sunshine sickened me, and I felt as though my insides had been rotting quickly as I strode further. As much as I wanted to love the morning walk, I could not help feeling ill from the hot breeze licking at my face. It held me breathless, pulling me away from my sweet memories of winter, scratching at every mound of cleanliness that my early shower had given me. I hate being here, I whispered in silence. The sun has always been a sign of sickness to me; its hotness a disfigured existence that has been but a threat to my presence. As more shriveled dust traveled to my cheeks, all I could think of was running away as fast as I could, to the very place where the sun could no longer find me; where winter would be mine once more—and eternally this time. As much as I wanted to feel at home, my heart could lie to me no more; for it would not find its sojourn in the new Jakarta. I had to go again, this I knew at that very moment, to fly over the moon and retrieve my autumn from the stars.
My day started in a daze; the steps I took to the workroom felt nearly weightless. I did not take a glimpse of a single thing along the stairway; in unconsciousness did I slide my chair away from my desk and sit in an awkward position. I was a piece of exhaust, haunted by the sun’s angry rays; the sun brought not light but blindness to my sight. However, this was what happened every morning since I had returned; too often that I was almost unable to identify who I was anymore. All the moves around me seemed like a dream. Yet, now I realise that even though they had been a reality, I would still have considered them a dream. I opened my laptop and started typing into the keyboard. Typing the words that I did not even want to read. Typing into the unknown universe that I would not seek myself in. The universe that I would never find in literature; and so would never be mine.
I had never lived a reality since I had seen Jakarta back again, this is the truth. I daydreamed about a distant place often; one that would not expose me to dire rays of sunshine nor plaster me to the routines I could never fit myself in. The bitterness of having left England washed over me once more this morning. Perhaps I could never win my winter back. Perhaps I would never return. Perhaps it all has left, once and for all. Perhaps I would always be alone. I had but lived in my literature, my poetry, the stories I wrote, all along; and theirs was the only air that keeps me breathing. I would think of the moors of Yorkshire once more, beside the cold boughs of Warwickshire that I had known—and let myself dance through the greenness that I would never forget.
My day started in a daze; the steps I took to the workroom felt nearly weightless. I did not take a glimpse of a single thing along the stairway; in unconsciousness did I slide my chair away from my desk and sit in an awkward position. I was a piece of exhaust, haunted by the sun’s angry rays; the sun brought not light but blindness to my sight. However, this was what happened every morning since I had returned; too often that I was almost unable to identify who I was anymore. All the moves around me seemed like a dream. Yet, now I realise that even though they had been a reality, I would still have considered them a dream. I opened my laptop and started typing into the keyboard. Typing the words that I did not even want to read. Typing into the unknown universe that I would not seek myself in. The universe that I would never find in literature; and so would never be mine.
I had never lived a reality since I had seen Jakarta back again, this is the truth. I daydreamed about a distant place often; one that would not expose me to dire rays of sunshine nor plaster me to the routines I could never fit myself in. The bitterness of having left England washed over me once more this morning. Perhaps I could never win my winter back. Perhaps I would never return. Perhaps it all has left, once and for all. Perhaps I would always be alone. I had but lived in my literature, my poetry, the stories I wrote, all along; and theirs was the only air that keeps me breathing. I would think of the moors of Yorkshire once more, beside the cold boughs of Warwickshire that I had known—and let myself dance through the greenness that I would never forget.
