This might be the only bit of angsty writing in this story – I blame the book I'm reading.

Summary

A page from Vanasha's diary from the time she still used to maintain one.

27 Henzou 120,

It's still early in the morning and the sun barely risen. Uzuki is tucked away under my blankets, her face pressed into my side. She looks like a doll – perfect, too perfect, without mark nor blemish, less real and more ideal, a mockery of the rest of us – what would I do without her?

She's small, tiny, fragile, passionate, stubborn, honest.

Honest.

Quiet a word.

It makes a liar of us all because we're stupid, because we can't separate fake sincerity from real honesty. I've always found myself disturbed, locked into self-blame and self-doubt every time this 'honesty' is gifted to me. Uzuki, how have I not come to hate you yet? Are you honest only in matters of practicality? Where you can separate me from my actions? Do you lie so you don't hurt me when you can't? So you don't push me away? So I will still serve you?

Uzuki, are you truly honest? Or are you bribing me with your sincerity?

Love, I want to know, but I'm afraid of the answers. I want to know but I don't know if I can trust you. I want to know but, I don't want what we have to grow stale with certainty.

The less I know, the more I want. The more I want, the more valuable your scraps become.

The birds are chirping now, people are up and about. How much longer will you sleep nestled into my side? I really wish you never wake up but I digress. All I wanted to do was record the wisdom you shared with me, make a confession, and here I am waxing poetic instead.

She told me a story yesterday night, when we were cuddling under the blankets after she had a little too much to drink. She always did tell me to separate the man from the myth, but I often can't in her case, except when she's irreverently blunt. Maybe it's the shock that helps me see past the legend, see the flawed human behind.

"There was a man who built himself a raft, a biiig raft," you were giggling pushing the blankets all over the place to show how big it was. "He lived on the raft with no paddles, no roof, no nothing. He drifted where ever the currents took him. Down this tributary, down that one. If it rained, he endured the cold. If he fell through rapids, he hung on for deal life. Every time he saw a river-side settlement or campfire, he would attempt to leg-paddle the raft to shore. Some meetings were warm, lovely, joyous. Some were strictly polite. Some were bandits seeking to steal from him and he would easily give, he had no possessions that he cared for. He always adjusted, lived in as much comfort as he could afford. The drift took him through serene calm, cold loneliness, welcome reunions, joyous meetings, harsh currents, sickness and health, punishing rapids, and through it all, there was always variety and a modicum of comfort." At this point, you were falling asleep. You had this drowsy smile, it made my day. "But you know what?"

"What?" I asked back.

"He drifted from high to low, high to higher, low to lower, but nowhere meaningful. He just drifted, living for today and tomorrow. Just existing in contented comfort and discontented discomfort, until he ran into rapids too violent for his experienced hand to handle and he died."

"You know how to spoil a good story don't you?" My mood wasn't particularly damped. It couldn't be with you by my side. "It's not like anyone would actually live like that right?"

Then you pulled yourself over me, cupped my cheek for a second and gazed into my eyes for an eternity with that same drowsy smile before laying your head on my breast, hugging me and dawling in sleepy tones, "But you do that everyday honey, you drifffzt."

That hit home. My smile fell off my face and there you were contentedly sleeping. I wanted to push you off and walk away, my alcohol-exaggerated mood swing just needed more alcohol to sleep. But you were honest, true, curled around me like a little girl, human in your fit of quiet destruction. Or maybe it was all part of your plan, I don't know.

I couldn't find it in me to disturb your sleep and I myself was paralyzed. Lost in the inky depth of my mind, criticizing and justifying me, criticizing and justifying you, criticizing and justifying criticizing and justifying.

And hence, this confession, to share my burden, quiet my mind.

Truly, I thank you. I hate you. I cannot bear to be separated from you. Dearest, sleep well, and may you never read these words.

As to the book I'm reading, its "C: A novel" by Anupama Raju