At times, I find myself in Munich,
one summer two years back.
In that apartment we lodged in; located at the far end on the last floor of the building. The ceiling was slightly low - an inverted roof that shaped the space underneath.
The kitchen was in between the rooms- a door that takes you into a more proportioned area than what first met the eye.
At night, I’d lie in bed, vigil, unaccustomed to Insomnia in a barren, white-walled room; No, it wasn’t that familiar Insomnia which usually hauls itself on my chest as the clock pass the realms of 00:00. It was distinct – for instead of the usual rhythm of my dysfunctional Air conditioner, it’s a draft of air – coming from an old-fashioned portable fan , circling the room in a full-round before it lands back on my face; and those bedsheets- their ends too crisp, their surfaces too smooth, like that creased midpoint of a finger ; wrinkling sharply as you lay your hands straight, and evening out like a bland slate as you bend it.
But then, something happens as dawn settles in , through that rectangular window in the kitchen. There’s this dim blueness, this sifted light, that laces everything it touches – the half-opened cereal box at the corner appears grand all of a sudden.
I remember I’d get out of bed, and to the kitchen. Push that wooden chair close to the window, with my copy of Jodi Picoult’s “ Second Glance” at the time, and read about ghost hunts and Native americans until my bitten fingertips were numb. I’d stop at times and look at the identical chimneys and brown roofs outside, oblivious to the city under the bricks.I remember wondering if they were ever red, and if war, and human terror dismantled their color hues during the sullen Nazi era.
In those confined few minutes, between daylight and the recoil of night – In that solitude, and with that unusual and foreign scenery right in front of me, I felt invincible.
I imagined I lived alone,
I imagined that those items in the Kitchen were solely my choices, that Milk carton in the fridge was for the coffee I’d make every morning, and that table was the place where I laid open newspaper drafts and circled mistakes with a ballpoint pen. I remember, the scenarios I loved to weave, the details I added, and how sudden thuds from the other rooms, dismantled everything as quick as I perfected it.
Today,
Was a March –
A spring day that brought me into existence once,
And, I made a wish,
To have a Munich Dawn, every now, and then.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
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Anonymous posted on 6:08 AM
peaceful.
Each morning, I live these moments of solitude, but it is this one solitude that I do not strive for, because it is built on bits of my dependent self. The fimiliar scent of home, the fact that at some point this is going to end soon; kids would wake up, Mother would turn the TV on, and what I almost successed in making it mine, even if for a little while, is not, no more. What I am really looking for is a solid solitude that doesn't shape up only under certain circumistances, I want one that is prepetual and doesn't clashes with my being dependent.
I love this entry. I wish you a happy birthday, and an ever-lasting Munich dawn.
Diddlina posted on 7:38 AM
This Summer, I've had that - the latter kind of solitude you're talking about; at least for a little while, and knowing such a thing, knowing it exists out there, knowing time and space can hardly be molded and brought back; it became something much more intense to be a 'Wish' anymore. It's something else, an entity of it's own which cannot be contained in any word just yet.
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