Nearly three years ago, I met a boy who didn’t feel things. He was strange, and I liked strange people.
[Content warning: heavy themes and references to current events.] I spent most of 2019 living in a haze. I think, “Here is an ambiguous memory from sometime in the year,” and I think, “Here is objective knowledge of what a good memory might feel like.” I hold both thoughts in my head, but the threads between them are just fog.
Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again. Though by Manderley, I mean Mahooz: the last neighborhood I lived in before leaving Bahrain.
Day 8 of The Isolation Journals. A mixtape for five different memories.
Day 7 of The Isolation Journals. Remembering my last journal entry about meeting my inner child, I decided to meet her on purpose in my meditation.
Day 6 of The Isolation Journals. Something happened that night that I haven’t experienced since my active reiki days. Something mundanely mystical.
Day 4 of The Isolation Journals. I’m standing at a food stall on campus when my happy crush, whom I’d only ever liked from afar, picks the same food stall to buy water from.
Day 3 of The Isolation Journals. Today’s prompt is to write a travel entry from your own home; to explore your place of quarantine like it’s a foreign land.
Day 2 of The Isolation Journals. Sometimes you want to talk about your sadness like it’s the weather. It’s a damn shame but it is what it is. We don’t have to dwell.
Day 1 of the Isolation Journals. While the feeling is specifically rooted in the global situation, it stretches out, connecting to a much earlier time.
This is how I’m ending 2019: anxious, sleepless, irrational, a ghost of the girl who entered the decade. A lot of what happened this year was my doing, yet somehow none of it was my fault.