Sandwiches and OrangesĀ 

My simplistic, pseudo-royalty, westernized dinner. 

Have a nice evening everyone šŸ™‚ 


The airportĀ 

Being a frequent flyer due to my exile, I’ve been around airports long enough to know and to not plan my journey so I could hastily run towards the gate. 

Today however was different. My flight was scheduled at 5 in the evening and I took off from the safe haven of my couch at 1 with good prospect on the horizon. It was a good choice since it rained after I got safely into a bus. 

By the time I arrived in middle of the city, the rain had stopped and the sun was shining once more. A good omen, I thought. I took the city shuttle with 3 hours to spare and arrived at the airport with leisure. 

I checked in and took a book to read. By the looks of it, I was well bound to my destination on time. By 4.30 I took my ticket to the gate and was approached by another surprise. 

I was bumped. Now I’m on the 8 pm flight. 

Should’ve went out late. (-_-) 

Atleast free food and Internet. 

Lonely traveler

I ended up boarding the last flight due to extreme delay. The shops were closed, the hall was empty and the seats were occupied by those who suffered the same fate as me.

The machines had stopped working, lights dimming, doors shutting and the chatters had receded. To be direct, it was late.


My only company was the roaring engine of a small twin-engine plane as it soared through the night skies.

I found it fascinating. With the bigger one, the lift and landing was smoother, whereas with the smaller one you could literally hear it roared as the propellers spun in unison. An experience that would forever be imprinted in one’s mind.

The never ending journey


Am I doing the book justice by filtering the colour?

Not that the book needs it.

Here I am continuing the unfinished pages of Colorless while waiting for my last flight. For those who are a fan of the author, you might had heard his story on how the sudden thought of writing a novel came to fruition. Sure, the story itself sounded as if it was just another story in Haruki Murakami’s world. Mysterious and surreal.

But that’s a story for another day. (or if you’re up for it, search it up)

In my case, it’s the story of how I came across Haruki Murakami that I intend to share.

From the very depth of my memory, my first encounter with Haruki Murakami was rather vague. It wasn’t because I was an avid reader nor because I was into the realm of kafkaesque literature. It was simply due to my innate nature of clicking the blue link in Wikipedia. (hah)

It’s true. I have no recollection of how I got there, however, similar to a dream, I was suddenly infront of it, reading the Oedipus complex. That’s how I got to Kafka on the shore, the very first Murakami book that I read. Ofcourse, I was simply curious, not interested. Interest is as if I’m opening the book to finish it, curiosity is fiddling with the synopsis by back cover over a lazy evening.

I downloaded the e-book and finished it after a full month. It took too long, but the story was still fresh. Even now, it still is my favorite among the others.

If you’re into dark, surreal, and mysterious story. Go for Kafka on the shore.

Airplanes and busses


The thing about studying outside of your state is the loneliness. Total isolation at times.

Ofcourse other than that, there’s public transportation. In the scale of stuff I like, travelling is definitely somewhere up there, and on the other hand, on the scale of stuff I hate, there’s travelling too.

It’s more than just about fatigue or weariness. Or your shoes falling off midway after miles of walking. Or losing a bag on the train.

It’s about the tranquility of the odd. Being an introvert, I’ve always had the minimum amount of friends needed. For the sake of socializing and cheating on exams (just kidding, wink wink šŸ˜‰ )

Travelling however, give the idea of a double negative. I’m alone because I’m in a foreign land, therefore it is normal to be alone. I found bus stations, airports, and terminals, one of the most peaceful place to sit down to read or just observe.

It’s a place with no origin. Everyone come and goes. They don’t belong here. There’s no folktales, scary stories, or myths. It’s just a place somewhere on the far side of civilization. A jam-packed crossroads of strangers. You could sit on a bench and stayed there for the whole day, no one would question, no time to question even.

It’s just a perfect place for an imperfect person.

A place where I could possibly be, undoubtedly, belong.

Thanks for reading. Have a nice day everyone.