21st November, 2016. 11.46 pm. At work station. If I am fortunate to be alive and sound in mind for few decades from now, I will surely look back at this time, reminiscing these grim days and nights spent in this oddly spacious cubicle with a queer sense of nostalgia.
I get this feeling once in a while. It strikes me when I find myself gazing through the things around me and reel back in reverie. It feels like every travel I make in my life, I leave something behind. Although how much I may hate being in a place during my stay there, I guess I develop a sense of familiarity. That familiarity is more often than not irksome - but only when people are involved (aren't they involved almost always?).
A sense of being in a physical location, devoid of human intervention, allows me to absorb its setting & the associated ambience. I make up stories in my head wherein I imagine montages of events that could be set aptly against such ambiences and so forth. That's all just fantasising parts of stories I wish to write if I ever turn to be a novelist one day.
So some interesting thoughts I get during such times, I jot down and I move on - from such places - further in my life. Literally and figuratively. But what intrigues me is the slow kicking-in of that queer nostalgia when I reminisce about the places left behind.
For instance, I don't like being here right now; with a designation and the attached nonsense of it. But the pensiveness I indulge in while I am here will trigger a later day's nostalgia.
I get this feeling once in a while. It strikes me when I find myself gazing through the things around me and reel back in reverie. It feels like every travel I make in my life, I leave something behind. Although how much I may hate being in a place during my stay there, I guess I develop a sense of familiarity. That familiarity is more often than not irksome - but only when people are involved (aren't they involved almost always?).
A sense of being in a physical location, devoid of human intervention, allows me to absorb its setting & the associated ambience. I make up stories in my head wherein I imagine montages of events that could be set aptly against such ambiences and so forth. That's all just fantasising parts of stories I wish to write if I ever turn to be a novelist one day.
So some interesting thoughts I get during such times, I jot down and I move on - from such places - further in my life. Literally and figuratively. But what intrigues me is the slow kicking-in of that queer nostalgia when I reminisce about the places left behind.
For instance, I don't like being here right now; with a designation and the attached nonsense of it. But the pensiveness I indulge in while I am here will trigger a later day's nostalgia.
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