How many of my words to you are real and how many thoughts are fabricated?
You will never know. Sometimes I wonder whether I really know. The way I write about certain topics about certain events are often coloured with a little poetic licence such is my prerogative!
The mentioning of places and people by name are considered carefully: there is no need to name my ex-boyfriend or my flatmate as I think they both would find this awkward. But I did mention Open Arts Cafe because it is great and I want to encourage people to google it and enjoy it one Thursday and Sura is as much as an exhibitionist as yours truly and will most definitely want the credit for her unfaltering encouragement!
This self-imposed censorship is new to me as I am used to writing diaries in which I have no one to answer to but myself. I try my best to strike a balance between entertaining you with little notes about my life and yet sparing you the burden of my own insecurities. After all someone’s once said: A lady is a woman who never unknowingly shows her underwear…
Yet something has been bothering me for a couple of days now. When I wrote about Life’s Basics, somebody commented that I had forgotten about love.
Ah, love. Love love love.
What to say?
I could answer: ‘Yes I forgot, how silly of me!’ followed by a few amusing thoughts about love and be done with it.
The real answer would be: I did not forget about it, I just chose to ignore it.
But that answer would require some elaboration and the right words seem to fail me. So I will turn to a hundred-times ( a thousand, a million, a complete another league) better writer and read Love in the Time of Cholera in the hope I find the words my heart cannot express right now.
To be continued…