I’m not much.
Do I want to be anything more?
Sitting here, not wanting or feeling is enough. I cant make my sister smile when she desperately walks into my room, saying nothing, sitting on the bed and then walking away when I fail. I like a bit of poetry. I like a bit of jazz. I like a bit of politics. I like finding new things.
I like a silly dick joke.
I like reading about my history and your history.
I like intelligence, but I can’t sit in a room full of the city’s intelligentsia. I know, I tried.
Here, have me unabashedly talk about myself in this manner.
A fish bone got stuck in my throat yesterday and we had to spend 2000 rupees to get it out.
I’m worried I won’t get into college, and if I do then I’ll be worried about the tuition because my father will pay more than I deserve.
This is me.
I spent another 2000 bucks to calm my paranoia with an x-ray and consultation, only for the doctor to say there’s nothing in my throat.
But you don’t understand, there is.
I like London. I like the Houses of Parliament. I like Buckingham palace. But I cannot love them, for in the hour it takes to reach there on the green line from Hounslow, I forget why I like them .
There is no England I know without Slough, and to forget that makes me upset. To want to forget that makes me angry. Sitting here is enough, but I am not. I want to do things, exciting things. I want to be great. I want more, but I don’t want it enough. I sit among giants but I am not one of them. I am the audience to conversations like radio programmes of familiar voices hundreds of miles away at the broadcasting centre of my living room. I am there, but I am not. This is my application and this is why I do not send it.