No poetry, but prose today, because the words just don’t come out anymore the way they used to!
Perhaps it’s because of the lack of real personal time and space, what with the numbered tasks flashing in bright red on my planner, and the seemingly endless laundry to be done…? In fact as I write this now, I am simultaneously contemplating if I should wash a tea towel that has been shat upon by ungrateful birds who peck on the cat food (not even intended for them!!), and who ungraciously chirp at 7 in the morning as they feed on the feline breakfast. So much for trying to sleep in.
I woke up this morning, even earlier than usual, and lay in bed for 30 minutes watching my roommate sleep and the ceiling fan spin. Round and round it went, with dust clinging onto its blades – of which I have no more intention to clean because I realised the bunny I hug to sleep every night is probably as dirty, so why be a bitch about ceiling dust when I cuddle a bundle to sleep every night – and I felt strange and unsettled feeling so settled in a place I swore to dislike when I first moved in. As the angels slowly cut holes in the velvet blue sky to let the day in, a sense of panic blossomed in my chest – I couldn’t possibly start to love this place now, because then it would suck when I move out in May!
Notwithstanding the unfathomable amount of things I would have to lug back home (why am I such a nester?), it would also be dissatisfying because of the attachment I might have possibly formed to the way silence is actually a thing here in the mornings – just a silent courtyard with the moon and the stars hanging overhead before they hand the day over to the sun; the way a few rooms are lighted up while the rest sleep on quietly in the dark, and you wonder if the people in these rooms are actually up as early as you are, or if the inhabitants are just afraid of the dark and so sleep with their lights on (potential cause for cancer, you think); how you sometimes see the resident cats pawing the morning dew, and then making little pooping holes – if it’s the cat that you love and whom you think might possibly love you back, you beckon to her from the second floor and hope that she will run up the stairs to you the way she does sometimes (when she’s hungry); how the burnt smell of cheap instant coffee wafts up from the pantry to kiss you good morning on the cheek; how the mysterious gardener has his breakfast in his little corner under the stairs, and drinks hot water from a recycled plastic takeaway container (you want to give him a proper bowl, but think he might possibly kill you with his garden rake because he doesn’t want help); how the nosy aunty who openly stares at your morning coffee routine whom you once thought unbearable and rude, is now your friend whom you share the sink and some conversations with — all this and so much more, I suddenly realise.
All this and so much more, but knowing that moving out is inevitable, simply because I have been banking all my time and hopes into the cake bank which might possibly collapse like melted buttercream frosting and which probably was a failure to start with anyway. Whenever we have a red bean soup break together, my friend S. always asks me what I actually do with my time – you don’t just study do you, he says. I look at S. and my other friends who seem to be happily involved in school life – clubs, societies, late-night activities whatnot, and then I look at my own planner: just ideas and ideas about how to improve my cake, or business ideas (that I have no guts or vocal cords to proclaim or suggest or push for), more baking ideas, none of which have culminated thus far.
The ambition for a sweet deal (pun so intended, but sorry if it’s a bad ‘un) seems to be mutually exclusive with the ambition to do the best I can for this degree, and also to be able to dance the night away with friends (okay fine we don’t actually do any dancing; perhaps just a really bad movie with crappy canteen food), and also to help out my family in any way that I can (possible shaky financial future right around the corner). Every one is growing old – it just happens that one’s needs when growing contradicts with that of one’s parents’.
RELIGION! my dad proclaims. But what happens when one love contradicts another?
What happens when everything contradicts each other?