And God made everything in pairs, like the earth and the sky, light and dark, the night and the day, me and you. Night and day is the perfect metaphor for us. Just like those other pairs; almost touching at some points, and blending beautifully where they do, but never one. The few moments in which we meet, we’re the pink-orange-purple-red marbled skies at sunset and sunrise. When we are apart, I’m like the stars against black; distant and beautiful. I’m like the moon, rarely whole. When we’re apart, you’re like the blue sky with pure white clouds floating through. You’re the sun with all it’s fierceness that sometimes hides when the clouds turn grey and cry raindrops. The moments where we learn to set our pain of being apart aside, I am a full moon , you are the sun shining despite the rain. I’m a blue moon, you’re a rainbow.
~ Broken bits of prose from the notes app on my phone (AKA Things I wrote when I was about to fall asleep)
So many things seem deeper with time; worn dirt paths, thoughts, cracks… But the ocean doesn’t. The ocean seems more and more shallow, and safer, when you’ve lived so long in its depth. There are less undiscovered currents and caves, less to fear, less novelty. Maybe that’s why feelings seem to fade with time. Maybe they don’t fade. Maybe we get used to their depth so they don’t feel deep anymore. Maybe feelings are like the ocean.
~ An excerpt from a story I don’t know if I’ll ever write.
Yeah maybe, but home can be nice too. Home is mama showering me with attention and making all the best food. Home is sibling banter and wasting each other’s time even when we all have exams on Monday. Home is parents worrying I don’t get enough exercise and forcing me to go on bike rides I actually end up enjoying. Home is hot soup that didn’t come out of a satchet. Home is warm showers and heaters and extra blankets. It is pieces of cake stashed in the freezer, because if anyone brings cake over, mama has to save me a piece. Home is an attached bathroom. Home is having a room all to myself and still not being alone. Home is putting out a pile of clothes and have them freshly washed the next day. Home is me complaining how behind I am on everything and parents complaining that I don’t study enough. Home is me announcing that I’m out of cash again. Home is empty Nutella jars waiting for me to lick them clean.
~ About that time I wrote something I ended up quite liking, while I was half asleep.
I cosied up in bed sleepily after praying Fajr. I checked my phone and twitter out of habit. I had a message from a friend asking why I went home every weekend (I WISH) when hostel weekends are so fun. The above passage is what I typed out, but before sending it, I copy-pasted it elsewhere, and sent a normal length text.