I’m very guilty of thinking “thank god I’m leaving all this behind” the past few days.
Guess I’m a bad person. And I’m pretty sure I’ll be facing more problematic things later on over there. But well, here’s my two-days-more freak out.
“It’s dusk, dearest. (In passing, isn’t ‘dusk’ a lovely word? I like it better than twilight. It sounds so velvety and shadowy and … and … dusky.) In daylight I belong to the world … in the night to sleep and eternity. But in the dusk I’m free from both and belong only to myself … and you. So I’m going to keep this hour sacred to writing to you. Though this won’t be a love-letter. I have a scratchy pen and I can’t write love-letters with a scratchy pen … or a sharp pen … or a stub pen. So you’ll only get that kind of letter from me when I have exactly the right kind of pen. Meanwhile, I’ll tell you about my new domicile and its inhabitants. Gilbert, they’re such dears.”
–Anne of Windy Poplars, Lucy Maude Montgomery
Recently my mother asked me why
I don’t write anymore.
How do I explain to her that
All my words came to life
For you and because of you,
And now that you aren’t here
I can’t write anymore?
So I confess. I feel like I’m drowning in a whole lot of sad, like I’m sinking into a tub of lukewarm water, fooling myself in thinking that staying here is fine. Just fine. While it makes me feel marginally better when I don’t ask myself too much, I know for a fact that getting complacent won’t get me anywhere. Change is good. I need to remind myself of this. But feeling so far in this funk, I just want to hibernate you know?
I almost wrote something someone said recently but since it was recent, I felt like it didn’t work and it’s mostly because of who said it and not what was said that I didn’t forget it.
I am a premature baby. My mom had pregnancy-induced hypertension and I had to be taken out immediately so they could save my mom’s life. They weren’t sure whether I would survived. My mom still thanks fate for being abroad when she got me coz there were neonatal care facilities which could support me to live in an incubator until I stabilized. Apparently, I was this 1.5 kg creature with downy hair all over my body, wrinkled face and eyes that were closed tight. Mom was so scared that I would die. But I pulled through and now I am here :).
Once, our whole family traveled to Sharjah to meet one of my dad’s friends. It was the first time in years they met and I remember getting out of the car, shorts sticking to my skin, sweat dripping down my neck and look around at the place Dad worked in before we shifted to Al Ain. The heat hit me with a blaze and I could see the distant palm trees shimmer through the haze and yellow sunlight. The building was tall, all steel and blue glass. Dad and his friend heartily hugged each other and when they parted I noticed his pineapple patterned shirt and mustache on a dark face. “Oh so this is your elder daughter!” He patted my head and cooed at my sister who was in my mom’s arms. I don’t remember what happened after that but when my parents were distracted, he crouched down to my height and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Duwa, you are a premature baby and you survived. You are very strong. Remember that. You are a fighter.” I remember feeling very confused because what would a five year old now about premature babies? But I still can recall the way he punched the air when he said ‘fighter’ and how close his face was when he crouched down to my height, how serious his eyes looked. It’s a fuzzy memory, more like blurred on the edges, coloured in vintage filters but it stuck.
I asked my mom who that uncle was when I was older but she doesn’t remember. I sometimes wonder whether I made that memory up too. Still, his words were precious to me then, and important to me now. At times, it has held me together when things got rough. Aja aja fighting~
Hope you have a wonderful day! ^_^
PS: I actually wrote about this before in a previous post so I felt like I cheated a bit but I only lifted a few sentences off my previous post so there. 😉
Guys, I finally got inked!
It has been a month or so now and for the first few weeks, responses of the people around me varied from approval to disbelief to the point where some thought I had been drawing a heart on my wrist every day. Crazy right?
Yeah well, my tattoo is pretty small and only a single line which also disappoints people because they were looking forward for something big and colourful and scandalous (probably), which doesn’t bother me one bit because I…got no fucks to give. Among all these, only a few actually asked me what it meant. I didn’t tell them though. Tattoos are deeply personal even the ones which are visible and I certainly didn’t want them to judge me. So I told them that I just felt like it when what it really means is having my heart on my sleeve. Aaaaand I said it. Be nice now because I trust y’all, dear strangers, to not judge.
Yeah, so why that one? Well, in the job I work in, we burn out of compassion like a match if we are not careful. I wanted to remind myself to keep my heart open, vulnerable, on my sleeve (lol) so I can do my best in caring for other human beings. Because at the end of the day, it is kindness that makes the world go round.
In other news, I still haven’t started to pack. However, I have lists of things I need to take. Like Siddhalepa and Samahan and the likes. Wow, I am so not ready, what the fuck, what the fuck.