20200610; Wednesday; 0812; online class Human Physiology Dr Wang on waiting list,
It wouldn’t
have come to an end if I were to put this, but somehow it did. I thought of
writing about positive things but I’ve become gloomy instead. With the sun glimpsing
through the raindrops, the crickets coming through their shelter and decided to
sing a morning song, the squirrel was jumping on the dewy grass suddenly
matched eyes with me, the surface of the harvested paddy field flooded with
rainwater ripples, not by the rainfall but by the little fish that were happily
clustered their own bellies, how can I not be? Let’s not talk about why we are
here, just take a sit back and drown with me. Weeks ago, I was looking through
the old staircases that have been wrecking, making hasteful sound each time I
crept onto it, when I found old books of mine. And when I say old books, it
means books that I don’t read anymore. My kindergarten books, my primary school
books, all the fiction and fairytale stories that my mom bought. Well my dad
never bought any, he would’ve just gives us money and we can buy any books that
we want, if we would talk about case of buying paperbacks.
Anyways, those
books took me to a long distance journey of childhood, reminiscence took every bite
of energy from my gray matter. I almost fluctuated. Some of it push me to the
boundaries, of where I am now, some of it I don’t even remember owning it
though my name was carved in the inner part of the skin. Some gave the best
values ingrained in me still, were lost and can never be found. I took a heavy
breath. Being sentimentally longing to memories is what I least wanted yet it
still happens. I guess that comes with age. As the number increases, our
central nervous system put on a conspiracy against us and build a new factory
of forgotten scenes that made us laugh when it used to be sad, cry when it used
to be happy and livid when the history was originally calm and serene. Pathetic,
or maybe intriguing.
“Nashrah,
can you please just stop being a dramatic old hag and live within future?”
said someone in the mirror, who
was sitting on a rocking chair that finally drove her to sleep. As an outlaugh
as it is, time has been the most mysterious thing that evades our soul, filling
through every knacks and corners of our sulcus, delighted and depressing us
simultaneously. I wanted to use the time turner, go back in time
and slap that kid in the face, told her to act properly… or maybe just gave her
a big hug, a long one, and say ‘You’re doing great,’. I said ‘I wanted’, I’m
not having it anymore. I’d rather put an end to everything instead. Shove
everything off, shushing everything out and walk away. The worst demeanour but
the simplest one.
I want to
write more as of now, but I’m not doing it. A successful huge procrastinator I
am, undoubtedly. I am still waiting for the internet coverage to crawl into my
territory as I’m writing this in the Microsoft Office Word 2016 version. Well,
the internet fails me. A little bit shocking as we are now strutting into 21st
century. Future, you tell me *smirk*. I’m about to whine on how unfair online
classes have been to me, don’t mention the teachers who yet to have curiosity
of our whereabouts and our upbringing, well it isn’t fair! I lived in a jungle,
in a cave or maybe under the rock, in the mountains even. Lifeless and
contaminated by the ignorance of interaction which has evaded my professional
life, I suppose.
When I dearly desperate for the breath of knowledge and gaining everything in order to fill up the life in between, I fell rock bottom. The morning breeze couldn’t pick up anything, they had lost in the vast prominence of hardships, failing, and I, too, have failed. I went to every part of the land in the search of the unseen thing, even despair. What if this has never started? What if this will never end? My persecution, mourning, vulturism, is the one and only me wailing and pleading to cut everything off the ground. I could abolish myself, throw a party and beg for innocence. Or I may slice every skin that never comprehend their own master, disrupting every senses, claiming guilty and sentence for a maxim, a verdict I call it.
I cannot help but to write, because listening is fatal for everyone around me. I cannot help but to jot down this anguish desire to be heard and perpetuate each blood to run without having any disruption from heavy traffics. You get what you give? That’s bloody unlikely, people tell you many lies and they expect you to believe it, like a toddler whose eyes shone when cinematised with fairy floss and gummy confectionaries. Well, you did. What a fool! My circumstances couldn’t see any road path that leads to where it’s supposed to go. Where is the light at the end of every tunnel? Or I don’t even deserve one?