I attribute the reason for me to actually begin to write a post tonight to my sister, who has neatly rearranged the furniture in my room, the bookcase is now between the window and the toilet, and the table faced to a wall. A sense of order is restored, finally, after the removal of the couch almost 4 years ago from the room.
She is, after her exams, quietly confined, trying to clean every area of the house, grumbles at me every time I do not *immediately* wash my dishes, pick up my dirty socks, sees a book on any surface except the shelf. Of course, it’s difficult for me to resume reading when suddenly my books are in some obscure corner of the room, find half written postcards when they’re stacked together with other papers, letters of not my concern (of the time being).
Oh the nerve.
But I understand how does staying at home too long can make you obsessive over details, and take delight instead she has taken my habit of chopping off her own hair on a whim (but not, to the extent of shaving it ha ha) .
Anyway, without F to talk to as he is without means of communication unless he queues up for the telephone in the middle of the sea of lonely young men, I am quite bored and try to think of things to do.
It is only through absence and yearning (of love) that one acts.
***
Upon viewing Wadjda;
Your view of normality does not necessarily reflect other people’s normal. People are always intrigued in stories not their own, and this goes from the individual extending to a culture. Again, it is not about the story, it is about the narration, about the eyes that see, the words that are spoken, the ears that listen, the mind that interprets.
perkaraperkara 