The air felt stale from the lack of change. I glanced outside my window and replayed everything in my head for the millionth time. Sometimes, I feel as if I was just a mere observer of my own life. Nothing seems real enough, perhaps it never was, and I lived my life, so far, from the sparks of my imagination.
The pain never goes away. It transforms and transcends both time and place, but it always stays by your side. I learnt that there is no point in running. There is no point in overanalysing it.
The story I tell myself is the one I always heard when I was growing up. Childhood feels like a distant memory now, an echo of an estranged, past life. Happy memories often need to be searched for. The ones I find I always question. Could they be real, or have they been fabricated by my own mind to protect me? Such silly thoughts.
Once again, nothing feels real anymore. I hear a faded sound and realise I have been sitting there for more than one hour. I remove myself from the window pane and sit at the old desk.
I feel the keyboard beneath my fingertips, and the clicks remind me of my grandmother’s typewriter. I used to sit for hours and type whatever flew my mind. It began with writing her letters and my first cohesive letter to Santa, all on that same old, piece of machinery. As I continue to type, I am flooded with sensations I have never thought I would experience again.
I can smell freshly cut gardenias, just like my grandmother used to bring me whenever I would sit at her typewriter. She used to tell me that women should do nothing unless they are in the presence of flowers. To this day, I always think about that whenever I engage myself in a long writing session, except for now. Now is special, now was not intended, but merely happened as if a trance began to unfold and I could not help myself from exhaling phrases and words to describe these wonderful memories that came back to me.
That was the last time I ever wrote at my grandmother’s desk.