So many words run through my head in the mornings… It’s so cold, the bed is empty, where’d he go this early in the morning? I swear he left the room three hours ago… I don’t want to leave the warmth I’ve built up under the blanket, but I want to get up. I stare into the eyes of my own reflection after wiping my face with a wet towel. I think I look prettier in the mornings in each of these moments. I rub my eyes hard enough with the towel so they turn a little red and double eyelids start to appear… and they stay for the moment I look in the mirror. The sides of my nose is red and everywhere else white… I wonder what it is I’m good at… making friends, keeping friends or losing friends? I see the water in the reused Somersby pear cider glass’s been drunk halfway and the blue and black sore spots on my arms from yesterday night’s impromptu volleyball game. My arms still hurt and I wonder how volleyball players live with this their sporting career. Maybe we just get used to whatever is hurting us until it doesn’t hurt anymore.
Then there are those to whom the new year means not much to, like the girl with too oily shoulder length hair, pink japanese slippers and a slightly torn black shoebag hugged into her right breast. The new year is just a day away, not that she bothers, but she makes a new year resolution for herself anyway: not to make promises she can’t keep. As she trudges on along home, wind cooler than usual, she wonders if people would like her better if she was truly herself around them. Would they find her more interesting? More likeable? Annoying? She entertains the thought, like a circus juggler throwing daggers in the air, catching them and tossing them back in the air, then a dagger falls to the ground and the act has ended.
As I sat in the train in silent and tired contemplation, I noticed a woman in her thirties in a black dress and black bag. Her bag was quite large, quite the size of a large cat. From it she pulled out a vegetable wrapped in cling wrap, and examined it closely with furrowed brows. And as I watched her, I thought it strange to have a vegetable appear from quite a classy bag. Maybe it was her attempt in trying to reduce the usage of plastic bags at supermarkets but I immediately thought of the world of Harry Potter, where it was possible for unexpected things to be pulled out of bags. For a split second I wondered if she might just pull out another odd object from her bag, maybe a hockey stick, or a black, long-haired and short tempered Persian.
Sparks ignite a small, warm flame inside
of this pulsing heart. Throb, dub
Thump, throb, dub
Sweet whispers, soft and silvery
on the ear, soothing like a serenade by a string symphony
in sunset settings
What time are you coming round?
Arms in a tight embrace, it feels
like magic, it’s a perfect
now, right here, right
Crack, crack, crack,
chocolate cocoa bars
cracked to bite size
Crunch, crunch, crunch,
crunchy caramel cookies
crushed to itty-bitty
Wash it, weigh it, whisk it,
Stir it, sift it, simmer it,
Melt it, mix it, margarine it,
Beat it, knead it, grease it,
Roll it, fold it, mould it,
Ice it, dice it, spice it up,
Set it in the oven
watch it bubble, sizzle,
hear it whistle
Tick, tick, tick, tick,
The evening had been well spent with friends; a belly-filling meal of hotpot in the heartwarming company of bosom buddies, with mind-opening conversations spread over and across the table.
If only this feeling of happiness could last forever; no one at that lively table would have wanted that evening to end. But as the last drop of broth evaporated away and all plates were clear of food, the evening of one girl at the table had come to an end.
“Let’s go for a drink!” one suggested.
Five minutes later, they were all at the entrance of the underground train station, bidding goodbye to that one girl. She inserted a 2 dollar note into the ticketing machine and it spat a home-bound train ticket at her. She boarded the next earliest train that would take her home, before the office buildings blended into the dark sky, leaving their brightly lighted company logos floating in midair.
Her friends were going to have a good time, but she saw the digital display of the clock on her phone and it told her harshly that it was time – time for home. She didn’t want to be back too late, for she did not want to incur her mother’s displeasure, so she went home alone and found comfort in a book that was her only company for the next half of the evening.
A soft knock. My silence meant consent, and a click ensued as the handle of my door turned. I was lying prone, on my bed, having just had a filling meal. Just as a tall figure stepped into my room, I breathed a couple of times into my palm, just trying to ensure that my breath did not smell like lunch. I know who he is, his presence familiar although we only started talking about three weeks ago.
“Hello,” he said in his usual soothing and deep voice, a gentle and sincere smile pushing his cheeks further apart from each other. He sat himself on the chair facing me, his movements slow, gentle, and calm. The room was filled with a reassuring aura.
Without asking, he began talking about his past, about how he used to be so different, about how he desired for a change for the better, about how he is finding his place in a life he decided to start anew.
His recounts were interesting, his face changing in the most subtle way as he reflected. A knitted brow when he experiences frustration in his memories, a twitch around the corner of his mouth when he recalls a comical moment, a shift in his eyes as he remembers an upsetting instant.
Seeing these subtle changes in his expression was as entertaining to me as a lighthearted television comedy, the kind you watch after a full meal, the kind that puts you to sleep in a fleeting and impractical dream, the kind that you wake up from feeling surprised that sleep had occurred.