So many tiny little hands.

Desperately grabbing at the air, each desiring a different thing. All emerging from one bulbous, beating blob. In their innocence, they cry out for such seemingly simple things. So easy to satisfy.

I look at these hands and I pity them. They know nothing. I want to give every one of them what they want. But that’s just being foolish, so my grey matter tells me. “Their intentions are deceiving. Starve them all to death,” she says, “We’re better off without them.”

The heart knows no consequence. The head knows no compassion. And I’m confused.

In this world, there are no absolutes.

We feast on life, gorging on a buffet of mismatched ideals and beliefs. Who is to say what is better than the other? It’s what we desire after all. Variety. Colour. A taste of everything – anything we want. Unlimited to seconds. And thirds. And fourths. Every dish calls out to us “Take me, eat me! There’s more from where that came from.”

But in all the greed for tiny temporal satisfactions, is lost the beauty of simplicity, where lack of more creates a greater whole.

I’m losing hope. Who wants a whole anymore?

What’s on your plate?

“A fluffy mass of mashed potatoes with bits of skin inside, seasoned with a pinch of salt and some milk. Oodles of full-length spaghetti boiled to a chewy firmness and doused in thick tomato sauce – not from the can, but made from scratch with fresh tomatoes. Slices of French bread, spread with deep yellow butter and topped with crushed garlic, toasted till the edges are a crispy golden-brown and the garlic begins to give off a beautiful aroma. Oh, and a big slice of rich, moist chocolate cake on the side.”

“Carbs, carbs, carbs and carbs.”

I’ve had that sinking feeling for too long.

Paddle a little. Sink a little. Kick a little. Sink a little. Gasp for air and hold it in. I see the rays piercing the surface of the water. Cup the hands and give it all I’ve got. Up, down, up down. Flap. Flap. Flap.

Whatever. Drift. Sink. Sink. Sink. Eyes half-opened. I thought I could swim. But I guess not. I’m not going to try anymore. I give up. Boink! My butt hits the rocks at the bottom.

Hey. I’m heading upwards. Slowly. I’m going to get my breakthrough after all.

I feel restricted.

It’s for my own good, I tell myself. But now I find that I’m stuck behind my own fence. The great divide between yes and no. Unable to let myself go. I either stay behind it or I don’t. See less of what the world can offer. Or brave come what may.

But either way, I know I’ll still be subjected to the laws of the world. Of humanity. Of uncountable possibilities that are still only within natural reach. So restrictions or not, that’s not the point.

Instead, I have come to yearn for something far greater.

“Hey, I’m scared.”

“It’s ok. Here, hold on to me.”
“I don’t want to land up the others.”
“We won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. Quick! Jump now!”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“Offft!”
“We’re free!”
“Not just yet, dear.”
“It’s cold.”
“It will get colder.”
“How do you know so much?”
“Now, that’s something I don’t know.”
“How come I have to be the insecure, ignorant one?”
“Because I’m the assured, smart one. Wait. We’re moving.”
“How much longer now?”
“Just a bit. Hang on.”
“HAHAHAHAHA! Stop tickling me!”
“I’m not. She picked us off her shirt.”
“And away we go!”

I won’t admit it.

I’m constantly seeking security in life, as most women do. Not just in the big things like having a home or a husband, but in the seemingly insignificant things. Like toothpaste.

For some reason, I love having a full tube of toothpaste in the bathroom. Or a full roll of toilet paper. The bigger the better. If I could steal those industrial rolls in public toilets, I would. I even get a kick out of seeing the fuel bar hit maximum after a pump at the station.

I like knowing there’ll be enough, just in case.

Use it then lose it.

An ice-cold can of Coca Cola.
A condom.
A piece of Kleenex tissue.
Disposable underwear.
A PowerPoint presentation.
The Saturday newspaper.
Black garbage bags.
RM3 slippers from Bangkok.
Alkaline batteries.
Cooking oil.
A popsicle stick.
A plastic spoon.
Dental floss.
A quarter-chicken meal with coleslaw and fries.
A plaster.
Pyjama pants.
A paint brush.
Hot pink nail polish.
A coconut.
Good advice.
A parking token.
A trashy Hollywood gossip magazine.
Pocket money.
A birthday card.
A handshake.
A rain coat.
Friendship.

How do you decide what something is worth?

With how much you would give in return?
With what you want to keep for yourself?
Is it worth the money that you’ve slaved all day to earn?
Is it worth the time you could have given yourself?
Is it worth your heart’s desires? Your life?

What am I worth?
Do I know? Yes.
Do I understand? No, I don’t think so.
Do I love myself enough to die for myself? No, I don’t think so either.
Am I willing to die to self?
There must be something I’m not seeing here.

Passion?

Desire. Want. Pursue. Longing. Focus. Devotion. Camaraderie. Determination. Conviction. Purpose. Belonging. Outcome. Grow. Heart. Push. Try. Time. Stretch. Groan. Sigh. Grasp. Overwhelmed. Tired. Maintain. Trudge. Discouraged. Sustain. Choose. Bitch. Rage. Why? Fight. Stand. Realign. Rediscover. Decide. Cut. Pull. Weed. Strive. Criticise. Do. Act. Sleep. Wake. Stress. Think. Frustrated. Dilemma. Tug-of-war. But. Burn. Stop. Relent. Stop. Give. Stop. Rationalise. Stop. Excuse. Stop. Compromise. Stop. Hide. Shame. Question. Cry. Yearn. Numb. Detached. Isolated. Selfish. Dry. Desolate. Confused. Find. Read. Huff. Give up? Maybe. Fight. Fight. Fight. How? How? How? Believe. Still. Look. See. Know. Desperation. Resignation. Sniffle. Flood. Now what? Desire.

Friday.

Thank God it is.

The joy in anticipation of the weekend is now replaced with pure relief that the week is almost over.

“You know sugar cane? You put it through those rollers to squeeze out all the juice. But that’s not enough. You take it from the other end. And put it through the rollers again. Is that enough? No. You put it through again. That’s how I feel on Fridays.”

And the sweet juice? Given to someone else. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. There is goes. What’s left? The pulp that’s breaking apart. Dry and void of any use.

Somehow, somewhere, I’ve gotten myself this cut.

Don’t remember how. But it gives me this niggling pain. And it gets rubbed raw when I accidentally touch it.

So I put a plaster over it. Actually, I shouldn’t really, because I know it’s better to leave it out to dry. But it’s comforting to have that plaster there. A temporary shield from the harsh world. It lets me feel normal again. If only for a while.

But that plaster can’t stay there forever. I know it.

And when I need to peel it off. Boy, will it hurt. Again. Stupid me.

Know love.

It’s making me laugh.
It’s asking me “How are you feeling?”
It’s buying ice cream for me.
It’s seeing me cry.
It’s giving my feet a rub because they hurt from dehydration.
It’s calling me to find out where I am because I’m still not home.
It’s your touch.
It’s making me talk about myself, just because you want to know.
It’s asking the difficult questions.
It’s standing up for me.
It’s figuring out the puzzle of life together.
It’s knowing that I can call you when anything happens.
It’s knowing who God is.
Because God is love.

I’ve given myself away.

Sometimes as peanut butter on toast, to quell a hunger pang. Sometimes as gift-wrapped boxes that can spark many a smile, but contain nothing within. Sometimes as a single feather brushed under the soles of the feet.

I’ve given myself away. Sometimes as a mess of tangled yarn. Sometimes as a melting ice cube. Sometimes as a half-completed jigsaw puzzle.

I’ve given myself away. Sometimes as breakfast cereal to chew on. Sometimes as the view through a glass bottle. Sometimes as a ping pong bat.

He says that it is still not enough. Not just yet.

How do you choose an apple?

Well, you go to a supermarket then head for the pile of apples. Look for the reddest or shiniest ones. Press them to see if they’re crunchy. No telling yet if they are sweet.

Then you pick one. Pay for it. And bring it home.

You can put it in the refrigerator if you want. Keep it. Wash it. Peel it. Whatever.

But when you eat it, make sure you eat the whole thing. Core and all.

It’s not like you take a bite out of the apple and leave it at the supermarket.

There’s a box inside my head.

Every time someone asks what’s in it, I look inside and pull one thing out to show.

But each time I do, I am surprised that it looks different from when I put it in. Somewhat smaller. Then I stare at it. Turn it around in my hands.

Then somebody wants to see it too. Pry my fingers open to look at it. Prod it. Poke it.

And after all’s been said and done to it. I chuck it back in the box.

Thing is, what’s the box doing there in the first place?