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 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.
My blogging life began on the now-defunct Multiply.com, where I went through a phase of posting personality questionnaires and quizzes. There’s one still imprinted on my memory: what color is your heart? Mine, allegedly, was blue.
Darling, we did it: we are truth-tellers.
It’s always a music box version of Bach: Cello Suite No. 1. It’s the biggest reason I don’t mind the alarms. The second is because I set these reminders surprisingly during the weekend of a mental health emergency.
Here’s a quote from Elizabeth Wurtzel’s Prozac Nation, which I’m told is aptly is about depression, which I’ve held to heart: “That is all I want in life: for this pain to seem purposeful.” I don’t know what she herself meant, but in my head I interchange “purposeful” with “useful,” has a meaning and result that adds up and makes sense.