Go into the kitchen and make breakfast.
Burn your hand while doing so. Burn until your
palm soaks water, skin repulses into wrinkles
and you try to find a sentence, no, a word,
among the folds. Here you spill blunt knives,
cutting into thin air, but you know it leaves a mark.
You stand there wearing the same dirty apron,
tasting the raw you taste every single day.
Wash the meat. Learn its song by digging your
canine teeth deep into its language- learn
tongue works as you lap its previous blood.
Keep slicing the same meat but in different portions.
One for being awake, one for you to be drunk with,
one for you to change into gluttony,
one fuels you to hunt for more. Learn the different
ends it could make: good or bad, well done or medium rare,
Let it be the thought you count once devoured.
Make breakfast every morning- even as your
hands disappear under the burns, water loses its cool,
keep on making new cuts and satisfy
the wild forests in you.
I’m in a strange place of stomachful with contentment and yet fingers counting ways to maximise life. I skipped two concerts that would have been monumental: Warpaint and The National. While I did spend enough time mourning for the latter, my regrets became warped into nothingness in less than a day as I spent the same night walking in KL. The city that, despite growing up by it’s side for 24 years, is still a dear stranger to me.
We walked through a mall rust with life cycles, grimes, well fed cats, food stalls basked in sweat and salt, Chinese uncles chatter and Malay pakciks gossip, grey walls, quiet corridors, and out into the night market. Stretched across a road, the night market decorated the night with fried delicacies, RM10 cotton floral pyjama pants and camo jackets, cheap plastic helicopter toys, fake watches, vendors calling out your names, all lit up with fairy lights and dirty lightbulbs. We scurried past the familiar and the foreign into the clearing of Dataran Merdeka.
Ah, Dataran Merdeka. Independence Square. The place where now it is instigated with lockdowns and confinement. A field meant for freedom is now being held hostage by cowardly authorities and construction. Even that would not stop the legacy of its name; we arrived to a massive gathering of families. Parents stood by the side as their young children shot the toy helicopter up in the air. Children bumped into each other as they chase their own toys. A father grasped his daughter’s backpack, slowly pushed her as she tried to stabilise herself in the roller blades. We blended in with the crowd, and we were free to spend time in our thoughts.
Before we left, we let ourselves being soothed by bubbles blown away by the wind, and the joy of childhood naivety constantly chasing it, even after it pops. There will be new bubbles made, new chases to enjoy.
Do you remember how happiness could only be defined by the smallest jolts of heartbeat?