Oh well, it’s a cosy winter afternoon, I’m showered and fed and wrapped in a humongous jacket and I think I’m a bit numb because I should be inexpressibly sad but I can’t feel it. This absolute calmness, maybe it’s the hour of the day, or maybe it’s the lull before a storm. Who knows, who could tell.
Author: Miminality
61
So a new decade! Eh? =]
I want to look up something I wrote in 2001 about how I hoped the last decade to be, just to be amused by how much it did not follow but I’ve destroyed most of my old writing and lost the rest so I’m pretty sure there’s nothing like that. I would like to relive 2001 in my head but I can’t remember how it felt in any detail at all… just very, very, unbelievably different. You never end up where you thought you would but life fills you up in ways you never imagine, and that’s just all right. So a year begun in secret hurt and secret joy, where does it take you? You wait, you wait and watch.
60
An entire lifetime of being an introvert would do nothing to cure you of loneliness, especially when it is winter and crisp and you could die for a cuddle. You can’t even point to a particular person, or a particular moment in time you actually miss: in the end it’s all in the head, an idea that just refuses to be stamped down to death. I’ve been trying to remember (and concentrate all this random heartache on) the most perfect person I’ve known. The effort leaves me at an absolute loss. “Perfect people” are such a marvellous paradox (people being intrinsically incapable of perfection); and the ones you think are the most perfect will inevitably be the ones to disappoint you the most because them you perceived the farthest away from what they really were. At times I can almost believe I’ve spent all my life on perfect people, gathering in handfuls nought but mirrors and smoke.
59
Chocolate cake: Achieved (yet again).
Chocolate icing on cake: Achieved (for the first time).
Neatness: Greatly elusive. :|
If this is finished in two weeks and everyone around isn’t already sick of overdosing on cake, next on is a large batch of cupcakes for Christmas.
57
This is one morose blog (like all the previous ones). This is a clumsy spittoon for times when the bad taste overwhelms the mouth and refuse to be gulped down. I think the weather is changing, the sunshine more golden and late evening walks pleasantly shivery and then and then the long afternoons of flavoured tea and conversations at Dolly’s but I won’t know anything about these till Monday and these last few days, the last few days, hours, minutes, seconds are the worst. I want to sleep but I must listen to hours of music and analyse them and read Wikipedia articles on them and fortify myself against their attack and I have never, never, never hated (some of) my favourite music more.
And then all of December I have nothing to do, nothing to dooooo.
And this is such a juvenile post. How old are you, writer? Fifteen?
Mimi Mondal 
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