Journal of Daily Life

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
It's description of what happened during the day.

Submitted: March 21, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 21, 2016



I woke at 8 in the morning. The consciousness that come into being after deep sleep is a dreamy one. It resembles clay before being modeled by a sculptor. Slowly my ears started to perceive the sounds of nature. The music of the birds chirping, tweeting aroused in me a strange consciousness akin to that Proust when he encountered the smell of oranges and that aroused in him many memories of past events. The sound of birds, a symphonic orchestra, reminding that ears that there is a Heaven in nature makes my thoughts into a poem. I travelled early morning on the scooter and the sky was like a painter unfolding a finished work. I bought cigarettes and had my three cups of tea and then journeyed back home. By the time, the sun was blooming into a new born flower. Then I travelled by bus to a distant town. My aim was to buy a book. I went to the book shops known for good books. I searched Philosophy section, there was none suiting my taste. Then I browsed into Literature and there was Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. It was too costly for my budget. So I left the shop without buying any books. Then as soon as I reached the bus stand, I saw a lottery shop. I went eagerly and purchased some lottery tickets. Travelling by bus again, I reached my home. The afternoon made me a tired bum. I slept like a log waking up at five. As soon as I awoke, I wondered what to blog today. I had no idea. So I thought I will stretch out the day’s happenings like elastic. As soon as the Sun sank to a dark carpet, I went again to the cigarette shop and I bought cigarettes. I was so damn thirsty, so I drank two bottles of coke. I thought of writing poetry, but nothing significant emerged. But the urge to write is not leaving me. It clings on to me like weeds growing on plants. My weeds unlike dope are my thoughts and they are healthy. There’s cigarette smoke in my ashtray. I wonder what the computer is thinking when I am smashing its keys. The rattling sound of the fan dulls me into a myopic entity. I wonder where all my writing would go. Would it be stored in the net for ever? The crockery in the cupboard stands like silent spectators. An unused TV grins like a crocodile. I ‘m marrying my many thoughts. Some are thoughts are vague and fleeting. I look at the many cigarette buds I have pushed carelessly in the ashtray. When I smoke, I ignore the pictorial warnings on the cigarette packets. It’s a hot and humid night that resembles the wrath of an angry God. I feel sorry that I couldn’t read the news papers. I am reading Derrida’s Writing and Difference. The play of words, the play with the significations of meaning, the defiance to the structure of the language all make it an interesting read. I can’t digest more than one chapter. Night is come, and my thoughts are about to end.

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