A Magic Catalog
I have one magic catalog. A catalog of sounds that will always be by my side.
It’s 5:00 in the morning, there’s someone calling my name. “Ainaya, wake up” I’m not even sure who that person is. A friend? A partner? Or is it just in my imagination? Which is why I can’t even describe it well. But I surely hear that voice. Still, I routinely check my phone. Is there any “good morning” from someone? Oh, it’s just me and my delusional personality again.
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The floor tiles are freezing against my bare feet at 7:12. Water is running down from the shower, trickling through every strand of my hair, reaching every corner of my scalp. “Tell me who’s to blame? Is it the people or myself?” words from Ariana’s song, again. I confidently sing the remaining lyrics loudly, feeling like that song is mine and only mine, while I don’t give a fuck about anyone who listens to it unintentionally outside my room.
Meeting friends at 10:00 right on time when the coffee shop has just opened its service. Amid typing sounds from devices, we’re drowned in our own duties and daily responsibilities. Sometimes we laugh, but not too much. And often, one topic could shift to some deep, random conversations. Maybe about why we live under the sky. Why don’t we just have houses up above the clouds? it would be fun! Or maybe about another absurd mix and match recipes, more than just a McDonald’s french fries dipped in a vanilla ice cream.
Now it’s 18:23, the rain is coming down. Music’s playing through my wired earphones, as I’m holding an umbrella and the unfinished novel that I bought last week in one hand. Passing by some stalls with people underneath the roof, making sure that they don’t get wet, while I’m walking away with no doubt, thinking manipulatively like I’m the most free human in this world.
A warm, dim yellow light keeps me awake at 22:44. I’m clinging to a few books, hoping the crisp rustle of the turning pages turns into a gentle lullaby. My eyes trace the exact same line three times over, my mind is slowly loosening its grip on the day.
Again, in the middle of the night, at 1:07. I accidentally wake up, greeted by the faint noises from the cold walls of my room. Sometimes the genre still sings, “No, I’m so sleepy. Nevermind, I’ll go back to sleep”, but most of the time it creates some sort of melancholic melodies that say, “It’s dark. It’s scary and I have no one besides me, or even just to tell that I hate this predictable thing”.
