Monday, May 4, 2015

How Should the Sun Be?

I like the luxuries of days, when I will not have anywhere to be, and can drown myself in endless cups of tea, going to the shared kitchen every time to make one, and sigh as I read all that I want to, and all that I'd never ever need for my thesis. There is so much I want to write, but every time I try to put finger to keyboard, I cannot think of anything. I am sat here on this glorious Monday morning, a Bank Holiday giving me the legitimate excuse to not go to my desk in the university (but grad students don't have holidays), cooped up in this little room in student halls, reading moving personal accounts in The Paris Review, making a cup of tea every time pangs of hunger surface, reminding me that I haven't had dinner or breakfast, and deriving a vicarious pleasure in drowning those pangs every hour with Darjeeling. How refreshing to break away from my gnawing everyday-neuroticism, which forces me to plan and consume meals, plan work, get about doing work, laundering, cleaning, going to libraries, and cooking. I even have the luxury of being amused at the thought that it will all return with renewed vigour late tonight, and I will spend the rest of the week in exhaustion.

I am still trying to figure out my relationship with the sun. It is problematic at its best: Thanks to spending twenty-five years in the tropics, begging the sun to show some mercy and not burn me down; and spending the last seven months begging the cloudy/ windy/ rainy sky to part just enough to let some sunshine in to brighten up the day; and then asking the sun to take it easy when it blinds every thing on certain spring days. One morning, as I walked to uni, I looked at the sky and confessed to myself that I had never seen such a rich shade of blue. White blossoms from trees stood as a majestic contrast to the shade of blue and I could only look with wonder. Warm days lasted a week, and then temperatures dropped, and the sun vanished. Now as I vacillate between two tabs on my browser, listening to the soundtrack of Mad Men on one, and Alexandre Tharaud's rendition of Chopin on the other, while reading a beautiful, intense article in The Paris Review, I think that the sun too might pattern its behaviour like me, vacillating between gloom and light, giving in to the mercies of its mood every morning.

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