The writing of it

 This seems like a strange kind of familiar...and a familiar kind of strange. Getting back to blogging after months. 

A lot is going on and I am feeling flustered. I cannot find my trusted regular notebook and paper on which I write my task lists. Actually, my notebook is divided into two parts. The front part is kept for the regular to-do lists and the latter part is just thought ejections because my brain is going unruly. 

To clear up some space in my head and heart so that I may be more coherent, I will describe the world around me. I have a little Red Bull in a wine goblet. I love the colour of Red Bull through thick glass because it reminds me of a tropical sunset, just before the sun drips and melts into the ocean, and shy, singing stars peep out.

I have some strips of medicines that I was taking when I had a fever. I took them for a few days and did not complete the course. I cannot take these pills like Combiflam and all for a long time. I feel like I am swallowing snails. Then I got palpitations and all that.

I have my deck of tarot cards. They are really beautiful and sometimes I just look at them because they are very subtle, fine, and pretty. The cards have a muted color palette with sage green being really prominent. And I have thin gold veins circling around them. 

I have a lemon or orange flavor lip balm and a blue sketch pen. There is also a bottle of Honitus and I have no recollection how or why it is here. This is the problem. Sometimes I feel as if the whole of me is not living whole of my life. It is as if part of my existence has been outsourced to someone who is just phoning it in.

I am wearing a saree today. I bought it in Kolkata from a shop in Gariahat. It has polka-dots on it, which is why I loved it. I like anything with polka dots. Otherwise, it is a linen handloom saree, so a little heavy. But it does look a lot better when I put it on than folded and kept. 

Oh yay! I found my book. Now I will go and write my list in it.