Mosquitoes like Indian Food

I feel displaced. It's been a month since we moved in, and I do not feel settled. Many issues, whether work-related, home affairs or the menial tasks of daily living, seem arduous and somehow, overwhelming. Sleep has been abrupt and frequently disconnected, just like how the internet was, pre-broadband -- with unexplained disruptions.

Waking has become a sluggish ritual. Possibly because the bed is too low from the ground (and somehow creates a certain gravitational dissonance, causing me to feel heavily sedated from rising). Or perhaps, I have lost the passion for sleeping on a neatly made bed. Since living here, I have been sleeping without the covers on, allowing the thread and texture of the mattress to imprint patterns on my skin. The only joy of sleeping with no covers on is the freedom from having to reset the bed to hotel mode each morning. The price I pay: The itch  throughout the night caused by either bed bugs breeding in the microscopic crevices of the mattress, or the bed bugs having a nocturnal feast on the 5'8" buffet spread of my dead skin cells that coats my lying frame. Either way, it is annoying.

Finally, my sleep could also be disrupted by the mosquitoes squatting in my backyard. I think they have already figured a strategy to get pass my hairy hands and legs to their source of Indian food. I hope I give them dengue instead.

This post wasn't supposed to be about my sleep, but rather my feelings of displacement. The diversion of topic could be due to my sleep deprivation, nonetheless. Oh well.

But I wanted to say that being unable to have a home, or a place felt like home, for one reason or another, is a tough thing to handle. I don't know how homeless people do it. They're were not supposed to be homeless in the first place. But they are now. And I am selfish to be indulgent with my grouses here.

 I have a place to stay, yes. But to feel compelled, vulnerable and safe, in the confines of privacy and convenience, within a property which you can feel at rest with, is an emotional need that is hard to fill.

With soaring property prices, steep financial-aid prerequisites, the imminent uncertainties about sharing your space with new strangers called neighbours, and the continuation of the memory-making process, of which old memories (of once familiar sights, sounds and smells), are stashed away, while a new backdrop unfolds for new ones to be made; the harder the task of satisfying the emotions become.

At this point, I feel my emotions are standing at the edge of the ledge, and my sanity is wearied from coaxing my emotions to get off. This schizophrenic malady is inducing more fatigue on me as I think of it, and sleep once again, seems appealing. Gnites!

** If you were confused reading this post, so was I. Sleep is good.


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