(The coronavirus pandemic in journal writing format.)

2020, you have given me (a lot of) time on my hands to try and make you look like an eulogy of my mortality, the bitter-sweet everyday existence which became like the incessant clattering of that pot that falls down the ledge, ringing in my ears, even as i carefully stubbed my toe while tip toe-ing in my kitchen. I am trying. But, those few seconds have stretched into hours. The clock's ticking has drowned in; time has frozen.

The ringing of that pot has now awakened my clan, the neighbourhood, ushered in the friendly street dogs to add to its music.

I now see you, hear you. There aren't many distractions I can dissolve myself into, putting you off for the next day. I need to do something about you.

I wanted to start writing that book, curate a page for poetry, highlight every line, every word that moved me, scribble down my little culinary tips to pass onto nobody, bookmark all the places I want to discover myself at, create playlists for every mood (there are aplenty). That pot continues to ring through my eardrums, alarming, jolting me back, to reality?

I am giving in, not to fill in the void of superhuman productivity that's amiss; not racing towards the end..

but to remind myself of simpler times, months after this is over, years into another normal, if there is something like it. A reminder of our ability of being a tiny fragile human community. A parable of survival of the spirit. A note to self; a journal of what it takes to be courageous, to truly grow into your own self, to take space, to breathe.

A gentle reminder, when times change, lest we forget.

Head bowed

Eyes fixated on the grid of pictures that supposedly sum up all this living, for the world One song on loop

Fidgeting the umbrella between my sandals

The next station arrives

I move mechanically to avoid glances peering through at my screen

I have looked at that one picture for 30 seconds longer than I should have

The girls next to me let out a laugh

bring this mind back to my corner of this ladies coach

A tiny boy spinning around the metro pole cackles

A woman rushing through the shutting doors, drenched from the downpours, panting

Another holding a toddler’s pinky, a mild attempt to stop her from ruining her fresh white frock Another blinking, slowly, bindi in the middle of the years etched on her face, hair falling loose in a bun, legs stretched out, waiting to let out a sigh

The girl in the frock breaks free to join the little boy spinning, giggling

I am here

Trying to push the phone inside my pocket to be here a little longer

This passing moment runs through me like a distant memory I fail to catch hold of runs further away whilst i sit in this corner and wait

not knowing what to do with these hands this mind “Doors open to the left, please mind the gap”

I leave a little of you behind.