Last Night Journal

Penning down my thoughts as I wait for my network to resume its work when electric power returns and I would be able to go back to writing my own fucked up world that held me in a chokehold while I beg for mercy. My words are jumbled in my mind and no coherent thought passes by me, every sane part of me has left the ship and I am abandoned by the vultures who are ready to rip me to pieces and throw every damn bone to dogs they have for slaves.
I am turned into a fucking mockery of a person. And my identity is in shambles, I am faking a life I have no control over and how am I better than those clueless bitches who are on social media crying over a crisis that doesn’t exist.
At this point, I am just stitching sentences together that sound more beautiful, and feel more poetic and I could envision myself as a writer for some more time, even if it’s one second or one minute longer. Doesn’t matter, I am in love with this idea of a girl I have been turning to and it’s too late to change my mind. She is art, she is love, she is everything that I am not. She is strong, empathetic, confident, funny, and a cute and ambitious little minx. I love her. I want to protect her, just like the plethora of worshippers at her feet, I am just dying to prove myself to her.
She is the sun that shines on my life just by existing. She is the warmth of my cold brazen blanket, that in itself is just a piece of textile that holds no purpose if someone isn’t laying wrapped in it.
Finally wrote a few paragraphs- is it enough? Is this what I wanted? To just write because that’s my activity of the day and nothing else. What now? What could I accomplish by just penning different characters with each other and hoping for an impactful writing that would change the world? Every writer thrives to write a piece that speaks to the souls of their readers. How can I write such a piece when my own soul refuses to meet the eyes of its owner?
I have a cold seeping inside my fingers and it’s becoming difficult to keep typing but I don’t want to stop yet because I said I would be finishing my writing goals for today. My husband is outside with my child and I am here alone in a room lit by the only light coming from this piece of equipment that I call my buddy.
I told him I had work. I needed to finish writing for my new article. It’s a lie I know. Yet, a part of me keeps repeating it. It’s a truth a part of him keeps believing. We love each other in a way that all couples do, we have sex twice a year, and go on dinner dates once every few months without the kids, all my friends know I have been a lucky bitch to land a husband that earns more than I could spend. The best part he let me keep this hobby of mine, and I keep telling myself I am an author. A self-published one but an author indeed.
Then why do I keep questioning the foundation of my establishment so often, as soon as my child goes to sleep or I find a moment too quiet, and why it’s the first place where my mind wanders? It can’t all be because of him.
That unknown stranger who I have been seeing in my yoga classes from afar and who smiles at me. No, it’s not because of him. It’s because of that accidental touch that happened a few days back between us that sparked a life within the dead tissues of my intimate walls. A spark I haven’t felt since, since before I could remember when I stopped reminiscing.
I have finished my daily writing goals so I should stop writing now also it’s lethal to remember that moment. If I keep thinking about it, I might actually start to believe the rambles I have been sprouting on this page.