I am sitting up on the bed in my tiny apartment in Pasadena. It's about 9pm, and my Indian neighbor is blasting his Bollywood music, the singer serenading the empty, melancholy space that divides each apartment dwellers from getting to know one another except of our music tastes. The ceiling fan hums above, trying its best to combat the stifling cubicle space that is of my home. The high-pitch singing goes on, intermingling with the mechanical sound of the to-and-fro Metro train. I stared at the window opposite of mine for a short second, its blind shut completely, yet the music escapes unmistakably with its longing plea.

My writing has become stilted. The naturalness is gone, despite my best efforts and intentions. It's difficult to fathom two years have gone by since my last blog entry. My original intention was to never touch this journal again, as it brought back a myriad of emotions and turmoil that was a daily part of my life. Yet from time to time I find myself going back to reread a few entries at a time, reliving what I thought was unlivable, and found my former self as someone I was not altogether presently detached from, despite the months and years that have slowly gone by. The current of life brought me respite from, but failed to completely erase the memory of, the Michelin of two years past. I would like to keep this journal alive.