I’ve been trying to write these past few days but the process is slow and grueling and really quite unproductive. I keep waiting for my thoughts to actually get out and show themselves but they are still stuck somewhere deep down inside. The act of writing is usually my means for sorting through them, making them fit together into sentences gives them a sense of coherence, structure. But here, I am utterly incapable of doing so.
I caught myself wondering this morning why exactly this was. And then I realized that my writing is about wrestling. It’s about confronting discomfort. But here I am really quite comfortable. Here where we still eat dinner in bed. Because. Where it is perfectly acceptable to have hot butter fried cuttle fish and fries with a sundae on top for dinner. Where they still call me baba even though I’m pretty sure the real world has started calling me an adult. Because. Where I can stay in my PJs. All.day.long. Just reading, sometimes. Here, where there is the comfort of AC & the passenger seat. Not having to drive everywhere – figuratively, of course – has reminded me just how exhausting this having to drive always can be.
There are moments of discomfort. Don’t get me wrong. Like when Sunitha and I sit on the edges of a conversation, I trying to converse in a tongue she knows not and her in a tongue I only knew so well very long ago. We are careless with our words though. We toss them around. I start a sound. She finishes it. She makes a move. She makes some hand signals. We figure it out. We move along. There is no stringing together of words. There are just words. For things. That we use. When we need to.
But that’s the problem really. Because what I need now – to write that is – are my words. The right words. Fat words, skinny words, words with other words inside of them. Really, any words will do. As long as they’re my words.
I’m still looking for them.
*But until then, these image will do. Of my life, lately.