I moved into my new place the first weekend into my current job. It hasn’t been that long ago – roughly 9 months. I chose this particular location because it was near the office, and practically at the center of everything. It was a tad more expensive than I would have liked, but I paid for the cost of proximity and convenience. My current landlord is beyond nice, my previous crazy landlady pales so much in comparison. There’s a narrow but good enough lap pool and it allowed me to let go of my gym membership in favor of swimming. I was getting bored of doing weights in the gym anyway. My room is just as big as I need – spacious enough for my things and storage, and small enough not to feel desolate. Another important but not so important point was that it’s near the haven for Indian food in Singapore.
Ever since I moved, I’ve been walking home from the office. The walk takes half an hour. I get off usually a little before the sun sets on good days and I walk through just enough crowd to remind me that I live in a city, but still providing enough breathing space for me to get lost in my thoughts. Although I prefer taking the train in the mornings to avoid breaking into a sweat, I hate taking it back home. It’s cold, it’s cramped, and the physical enclosure somehow makes me feel constricted. When I walk home, the streets have no end and the breeze touches my skin. It’s the only duration in my weekdays that I truly feel free. In addition, not everyone I encounter is in a rush. My favorite sight is a group of elderly men who sit in front of an old shopping mall. They take it upon themselves to feed the pigeons with bread every late afternoon. I’ve been wanting to take their photo for some time now but at the same time I don’t want to intrude in their little ritual. It might be to them what my walk home was to me. I always miss them when I get off late – I wonder if their freedom stops then.
This isn’t supposed to be my next post since the last. It should have been my trip to India more than a month ago. But I had such a cathartic experience there that I couldn’t even write about the entire trip. It’s quite uncharacteristic of me, when in fact the entire trip was incredible. I used to be able to have the urge to write the most when I was sad. This time around, I was so confused and distraught at the mixture of emotions that I couldn’t even bring myself to write. Writing would force me to relive the moment at a whole different intensity compared to just reliving it in my head. So in writing this entry today, I know I’m one step closer to healing again. I look forward to writing about that trip soon. As an abbreviation of Murakami’s wise words go, “time…what time can’t…, you…”
Meesapulimala, Munnar, Kerala, India