At how one year can so swiftly and so poignantly settle into the field of memories.
But I dedicate so much of my energy, throughout the year, to reflecting, that I am almost sick of doing it. The wonder of experience doesn’t escape me, but sometimes I’d like to escape the stifling comfort I find in understanding the past.
Coming back home, after four eventful months in Toronto, has brought more than the happy reconnection I had expected. On the first night, I sat in my bed, and started looking at my belongings, carefully scattered across bookshelves and drawer. However, even though I felt the weight of my past in my books, paintings, and beloved nutcrackers, I could not help but perceive them through a cinematic lens that covered every object with an aesthetic glaze. What felt substantial felt substantial in manners I had come to understand from the poetry I read, films I visioned. Continue reading “Another year, and once again quietly stupefied”