‘He’s not here but far away
The noise of life begins again
And ghastly through the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the bald day’
I just finished reading a book ‘every time we say goodbye’ by Anna Blundy. It’s about a daughter missing her father after he dies in a war ravaged El Salvador. Being a father obsessed young lady; I seem to sort of understand how shattered she was when she heard of her father’s death on the news. You should read it probably makes you realize how we take people for granted every single day.
So here I’m far away in a town that doesn’t speak my language sending out a message to the millions hoping my voice doesn’t drown in the consistent drone of the servers next you.
When emptiness seems to fill your senses and your emotions tend to be indefinable, when you are in an empty room with walls for company and you’ rather be away from your one single friend in the crowd, you should know you’re missing home.
In the past four years, my life has been in such turmoil. Everyday I’m constantly reminded of the fact that I’m a terrible writer. I haven’t read enough books to be called well-read and I haven’t heard enough music to claim to be a music buff. And yet when I hear people quoting D. H. Lawrence and James Joyce, I feel someone’s playing Beethoven’s symphony in my heart. My heart jumps at the sight of a Shakespearean play not because I love Shakespeare, but because I always wanted to play a Macbeth or Hamlet or a beautiful Juliet. For at the end of my hard earned day, when I ask myself who am I? The four walls around me mock my silence.
So to the world out there, please give an answer lest my faith in my importance dies out. Who am I?
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