then i can read more books.
then i can spend more time watching films.
then i can cook more at home.
For the meantime, I will slip and sneak away from this hurried schedule to write and dwell on things - on a level that would require less of analysis and guilt-driven pace - every now and then.
Yesterday I processed my papers in the bank for a change in card and pin number. Whoever holds my wallet right now should rely on the pictures inside and see my face among the hundreds of random faces he/she/it!? meets everyday and recognize that I am the one in the pictures. God knows the reasons behind this, but I luckily took two of my most important IDs out of the wallet (about two days before I carelessly left the great W somewhere). That's luck out of the unluck (bad luck really sounds bad) for me.
Generally I can say that I am at a slow pace nowadays, thinking less of the things that bother me most. Any time I can, I cook. Now I wonder if women who cook feels that cooking is an act of indulging the self and getting inside her own psyche. I cut vegetables and I think of things that basically makes me me. I boil water and I dwell on the days when I used to wait for papa to arrive and bring ampaw or chocolate with him. It is about the sheer carefulness and deliberate slowness of the hands that brings certain thoughts I guess. I don't know. I can not write about it more than what I've explained now.
My writings are dull and lifeless. I tend to write less because I keep on erasing lines, words... because this certain voice keeps on telling me that I have failed the stories I mean to tell... because it tells me that I have not given justice to the life that thrives behind all stories...