I think God (whoever he/she is) gave me wonderful friends
To help me tide with the insanity in my family.
Yet God makes a fool of me,
Giving me an illusion.
Temporary happiness, to mask the suffering he has punished me with.
I must have been a rapist in my past life.
It doesn’t matter what good I have in me.
Not the old lady I helped flag a cab for in the drizzle, the lady struggling to even stand, much less fight with unforgiving cab snatchers.
Not the old man pushing his cart in the rain.
Not the mother who I have sacrificed and dedicated my whole life to.
I don’t know how I can stay sane anymore.
Her eyes are devoid of compassion.
We throw death around like a joke.
It really is a joke to me.
A nice end.
I don’t think I need help anymore.
It is quiet outside. 1.15am. My birthday has ended.
A poignant song plays. The streetlights shine subtly.
Among the shadows, I am dancing.
So are the tears pirouetting along the boundaries of my eyes.
I cannot have asked for a better birthday.
It’d be more perfect if he had been here to spend it with me,
but it was perfect.
There were no loud celebrations, no wild parties, no massive drinking.
Just drifting through the afternoon rain, just dancing in the moonlight.
I started the day by listening to the music I love.
Took a long, comfy shower, and dressed up a little.
No special makeup, no special birthday dress, just
Headed to the manicure parlour alone, did my nails just the way I wanted, a french base with zebra tips.
I had always found manicures therapeutic, like how an introvert would drift into another dimension and see only parts of the world he wished to see.
My dear friend of 8 years came by to spend some time with me.
I wondered how these 8 years had slipped us by without warning.
To have the same friendship now, as that constructed 8 years ago, is a beautiful thing. A blessing.
We headed for the chanel counter, a little out of place, a little odd.
We were treated like teenagers fooling around, never serious. Why bother servicing them?
Ironically, it felt nice to be treated this way. For a little while more, maybe. Being mistaken for an ignorant youth.
After all, I’ve hit the big 2, and it won’t be long before it starts to show.
Bought myself my first branded cosmetic, what else could it be?
A classic red Chanel lipstick of course.
The symbol of womanhood.
My dear friend, with her vulnerable, fragile heart being ever so painfully sweet, took me by surprise by coming back from the counter with a ring I had admired but “wouldn’t pay for”. Just a passing, careless remark, and my dear friend had acted on it.
I almost cried. She couldn’t understand why.
Thai massage. Therapy.
I went in completely bummed by the rainy weather.
I came out feeling like I just stepped out of a dream (or into)
I couldn’t comprehend where I was for a good 15 minutes, couldn’t return to reality. In fact, I don’t even think my feet were grounded.
I could have been floating.
While waiting for le parents, it was grocery shopping for dinner.
Pasta sauce, check. Salad dressing, check. Roast chicken, check.
I shouldn’t have to check this myself, but fuck it.
Got myself a cake from Starbucks, just a slice, because I wasn’t interested in cakes at all.
I bought a cake just to make my wishes.
But that also meant I could not go home without candles, which Starbucks happened to not have.
Went around finding candles. I got so desperate I could have been searching for sparklers at one point.
Bought myself a black tea macchiato.
I deserved it. All this work to satisfy my family with my cooking on my birthday.
I celebrated the idea of having someone invent a black tea macchiato cake.
I would actually look forward to having cake on my birthday.
Maybe I’d be lucky enough to find a recipe for next year’s cake.
Le parents picked me up.
We got all excited about cooking dinner.
We never, ever cook our own dinners.
We met an old man, a very old man, along the road, on the other side of the window. The rainy, unsheltered side.
Our hearts stopped, and so did our car.
We decided that I’d hop out and give him enough for a warm meal on a cold, rainy night.
He was trudging along, pushing a cart that was creaking with every turn of its wheels. The cardboard boxes he was collecting, that he held so dear, and tried to shelter from the drizzle, were completely soaked.
As I approached him, he was apprehensive. He avoided eye contact, and focused on pushing his cart slowly. Very slowly. He was struggling.
I spoke a language I hadn’t spoken for a long while.
It took me by surprise.
It is a cold night. I passed him the money.
For a moment I was worried he wouldn’t accept it.
I knew that such people were self determined, that they would earn whatever they might receive. That they could survive on themselves no matter how hard it is, that they didn’t need pity.
It’s a rainy day, walk carefully, I said.
It’s a rainy day, I said, and I pointed to the cart.
He smiled. And he said, thank you, I will walk carefully.
He knew I respected him, he knew it wasn’t pity money that I threw on him because I felt he was inferior to me.
I might have been the granddaughter he could not have.
When I got back to the car, we couldn’t drive away.
As he walked by, I wound down the window, and I waited.
The man who had avoided eye contact at first instance was now waving to me.
I think I cried.
We got all excited about cooking dinner.
We never, ever cook our own dinners.
So excited we had to make a pit stop at the mart near our place to pick up a few more ingredients.
3 cans of mushroom soup, check. Two cans of button mushrooms, check. Wild mushrooms, check.
Skimmed milk? No we don’t need that, dad.
We got home and I cooked up a storm.
My dad, my house helper and I relished the thought of being chefs of a fancy restaurant, one that my house helper only visited through the television shows that she had watched.
My dad and I had never prepared a meal together.
It was special for all of us.
Spaghetti Bolognese, check. Mushroom soup with wild mushrooms, check. Roast chicken, check. Salad with pineapple, raisins and cherry tomatoes, check. Kronenbourg beer, check.
Dinner was perfect.
I was surprised my brother joined us. He had just came home.
Its funny how I mis-estimated the amount of spaghetti and ended up cooking one extra share.
A comfortable share for my estranged brother.
He spoke to me, the first conversation we’ve had since that big fight weeks ago.
He said hi, and happy birthday.
I didn’t cry.
Thereafter it was just candle blowing (There was a limp attempt by the dad to initiate a song, but I couldn’t stand birthday songs, and I skipped to making my wishes and blowing my candles)
I remember thinking up 199 wishes throughout the year, but at that moment, I could only think of 3. And those three wishes, I made every year. Well except now there’s one extra person in my life important enough to include in the three wishes.
I couldn’t think of any other wishes.
I think those were just me, stripped down naked to whatever is essential in my life.
Today, I couldn’t have asked for more.
I am crying.
Le friends who celebrated with my throughout the days leading up to my birthday, le family whom I’m learning to love better, and le boyfriend who is overseas but made sure my presents and emotional needs aka letters were well planned for in advance.
Somewhere this past year, I wondered if I’d ever make it to my birthday.
More than once, maybe often, maybe seldom.
I cannot remember anymore.
But I remember promising to congratulate myself if I ever do make it.
To me it was impossible.
But I did.
And I have grown so much in the past year, that someone up there would tell you it’s phenomenal.
Sometimes I feel like my clock is ticking, there’s not much time left for me.
But right here, right now, I am infinite.
— George Zinavoy
(Source: grohtesque)Posted 6 months ago
— Anna’s Poem, Like Crazy (via papercrushed)
(Source: ashwrites)Posted 6 months ago