The Beginning: A Winter May

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Julian Fernandes

I have this blazing aching rage to write. To paint coherent thoughts on a sheet of paper and form them in my mind so they can provide an accurate deliverance of what I am feeling. Any attempt to form perfectly structured sentences is dismissed by the fact that my mind is a soup of words. No proper layout or structure. Where do I put the commas ? Ellipses? What will portray an accurate depiction of the fire I feel inside? I have Plath to blame for. So I will start with this, It is a winter May, I try to pace myself as I walk to the station… My sneakers clicking on the sidewalk like a child’s impatient knock. I am rushing to work but it feels like rushing to nowhere. There is no steadying my breathing as I scurry on to make the light. 5… 4….3…..2…..1. There are onlookers but they may assume the same of I. So I am stuck wondering where they are going, physically and mentally. If they are, in fact, going anywhere. I continue to hit the concrete, there is no breaking my stride. Struggling to make my next train, every step will inevitably determine what I make of the rest of my day. But still, I don not know where I’m going. Only that I need to get there. The breeze trickles down the neck of my back. Teasing me. As if it is aware that this is not the place I feel I am meant to be. There is no emotion in a city that is gray and dull. No sense of ingenuity in a scene that offers little to no inspiration. Life has a funny way of giving me the things I do not feel I need and yet, here I am, writing. And it is not a summer place.

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