It is 1:45 a.m. so I reckon it counts as Sunday. I have avoided writing anything of a personal nature on the blog because well, reasons. I am not necessarily a laconic person, in fact, my friends would claim otherwise but I don’t much like talking about myself. It is not because I think I am uninteresting but because what makes me interesting is not something I can articulate too well.
Ever have those moments when life is terrifying and there is nothing more you want to do than to return to childhood. Those moments of complete security when you knew who you were and that you belonged. And the only obligations placed on you were to eat dinner and play hard. Perhaps homework.
I miss Fiji but the Fiji I miss no longer exists. The landscape of my childhood has irrevocably changed. People I called my own have died and left spaces that will never be filled by anyone else. Death. I have seen a lot of it in my life. More than my fair share but it wasn’t until I came to Canada that I realized that death has so much effect on the people left behind. Does that seem strange? Death was just a part of life in Fiji. It hurt but time took care of the intensity of the loss. You had no choice but to move on. We were taught not to linger on it.
Death, I mean.
I adore silence. But sometimes it can be stifling. But silence after loud music is the best kind there is. The smell of fresh rain on the earth makes me swoon. I love riding in a car at night when it rains. I make up stories about strangers on the bus. And not too long ago, there used to be a running narrative in my head. Of stories I have not yet told and may never get to tell.
I have realized my own smallness in the months after I graduated. Realized how my race, ethnicity, religion and gender all work against me in this world I live in. I am terrified of losing my ability to write but how can I stop it from receding each single day? What happens when I no longer have words? What do I have if not words?