Someplace Else

You make me happy, do you know that?

How so?

Your existence, your breath, your caramel hair against the morning sun, your porcelain skin against mine, your squinty eyes when you're being naughty, the way your fingers slowly crawl on my face. 

What else?

Your smile. Your perfect teeth. Your little dance in the kitchen. The way you stand. The way you walk. Little silly things you say when you have your first coffee of the day. 

You make me happy too.

How so?

You. You by being you. You make me happy. 

 Even in the mud and scum of things, something always, always sings.

A Raya Note

Couldn’t help myself but to stare at last year’s Eid photo. Doesn’t want to sound sappy nor despondent, but this is how I plunge into the celebratory eve of Eid. The lemang was nothing but thick blocks of salty gooey carbs; the rendang was a pot of runny distasteful disappointment; and home is a vault of silence with unperturbed partitions of messes. 

My head spins with distress, annoyance, troubles, problems, whatever there is. They say, tonight is the moment of reflection, when you sit down, pat yourself at the back for passing through the 30 days of self abstain. Did I fast good enough? Sure I fasted more days than when I was 10. Did I win the fight? It was more like carrot and stick, where my uncontrolled self chasing the carrot to no end.

Have I tried my best? More often than not, I have not. Have I tried to mend the fences? Your guess is as good as mine, I have not. Have I tried to man up and admit my mistakes? No I have not, but I stood by my decisions even though it is wrong. 

Am I a shitty person? I am and there’s not even a remote chance that I am going to deny that. Have I abused the trust that was bestowed on me? I have and even though sorry might be cliched, I ran out of words other than how remorsefully sorry I am. 

This Eid, as with the other Eids I had before, is just another day of me lounging on the couch watching TV while snacking chips  on my belly. The only difference is that this year, it is without my late Abah’s soothing presence, my Mak’s comforting smile, and all other nitty gritty that makes Hari Raya as it is. 

If you ask me how do I feel, which I’m certain you will not, I am just sad and depressed. And as much as I want it to sound casual, it’s a reprise of melancholic epiphany. 

Selamat Hari Raya. Maaf Zahir dan Batin

Dhahran,

Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

Addiction

I realized recently that my fascination towards certain something or certain someone has a definitive expiration date. A date that is so obscure it changes whenever I feel like to. What was it? Was it partly due to separation issue? Anxiety? Over attachment? Low self confidence? There was a time that I developed a worrying addiction to ice cream that I bought an ice cream machine for the sake of experimenting 'new' flavors that I ended up using the machine for only a couple of times. The machine now stuck on the top shelf in the kitchen, collecting dust and in a year, about to be an ancient relic. 

Or when there was a time that I loved luqaimat (sweet arabic dumpling, glazed with date molasses) so much that I bought them every single day for almost a week. And now when the infatuation is over, the thought of it revokes nothing but a speck of old memory.

It happens to writing as well. When I took my shower a couple of minutes ago, I could not wait to get out of bath and start writing - about my short period of infatuation - that it seemed to wane its steam off. Shall I continue writing tomorrow? Or shall this post end here?

I don't know. We'll see when this excitement comes to life again. 

Good night.