Can’t believe I have been in a relationship with another “false attempter” that life got to offer. They are just a few in any universal count, but significantly numerous in my lifetime a count of 15 or so years search. The seemingly good intenders, whether it was 3 days, 3 weeks, 3 months or 3 years of their lingering process, one by one they let go of my hand, the journey take a sudden halt, and once again I am here. Alone. Daze. Looking around me and ask unbelievably, “That’s it?” Nobody seems to be around anymore for me to even ask for any further questions, silence. It’s just me now. Someone has just letting go of my hand. Why? Someone has just freeze another chunk of my heart. I do wonder how big of a heart that I have to withstand all these frostbites; the past’s, the present’s and the future’s.
39 minutes 45 seconds and counting, uh ah uh ah uh ah. This is a rough day testing the endurance. My heart is sinking with every breath that I take. Flashes of memory pieces dive in and out on the big glass window. My body works on its own mechanical wonder and my brain seems to have even bigger boaster, fuel on emotional turmoil. In a race, somehow the later can’t ever seem to find its switch.
The traffic and buildings outside are glazing away; I’m standing alone on my familiar hill, high above looking over the raging ocean below. A single old wrinkled Banyan tree is standing against the wind, grasses green as any eye can see dotted with small yellow daisy ankle high soft on my bare foot. Blue sky slowly turning its skin to a darker shade, patches of clouds closing in on the bright sunlight, slowly turning into grey threatening rain on the horizon creeping ever so slow. I can see my hand, outreaching, trying to grab the passing wind, by some means it seems to have a life of its own. Separating from my body, which is numb in its existence, housing heartbeats that are out of rhythm. I am here, waiting, for something that never seem to materialize. A sense of loss, a sense of disappearing self, a sense of fatality, which rooted deep as deep as my understanding of being. I am here, piercing through the air over to the distance water. Hopes, dreams, those forbidden thoughts that are all suppressed in reality, grow wild with the daisies on this hill. I am here, free to scream and shout, free to let go, free to build, stone by stone, my castle, stone by stone, almost at the same rate as it was destructed, again and again. But, I am still here, standing, alone, the Banyan is still standing, the wind is still blowing, my hill is still here. I am ever lost, yet, I am here, holding on, taking root like the old Banyan.
Slowly, I’m melting further, a little girl sitting on the front door step, crying in silence, an old German shepherd close at her knees. She rest her weary soul on his head, her small arms enveloping him, drawing all the warm and comfort that her little heart can absorb. Brawling from the end of the back corridor, Ma and Pa, their voice rises in the heat of the afternoon sun. I am here, playing back the too familiar scenes, of both of them standing facing each other, armed with whatever domestic tools that they could find, funny, you would never imagine a bug pump-spray is designed handy for human defender or human offender tool. Ma is angry, tears are running down her face, her hair wild, her voice is wilder. Pa was caught ‘handling’ the maid. The maid is nowhere to be seen. Pa is furious, his strong arms flagging in threat, his face turn to Neanderthal expression, and his voice is even wilder than Ma’s. My stone step is the farthest spot that I can go, for now. It’s not safe, it doesn’t protect me, it doesn’t hide me, and it doesn’t take me away. I am waiting, waiting for the neighbor to open their window and see me here. I am waiting, waiting for the Mum next door to come and take me in her house. I am waiting, waiting for the Mum next door to hold me in her arms, and telling me that everything is going to be fine. I am waiting, waiting for the Mum next door to tell me how a brave pretty little girl I am, that a such as I am, doesn’t cry, God loves strong, brave pretty little girl, and I am one of these girls that God creates to be special, who find happiness and good fortune when she grows up, someday. I am this little girl, strong, brave, pretty, with kind heart and life will be kind.
I am a grown up now, and I am still waiting. I do not know whether I am still strong and brave; the Mum next door is long gone. No one is telling me I am a strong, brave, pretty, kind and that life is just going to be fine. My brain is telling me I am strong, the mill is telling me that I am able to burn 159 calories so far. Uh ah uh ah uh and still counting up.
Slowly, a potato KiwiStag01 flies by approaching the big glass window, I look down at the mill’s placard trying to avoid his gaze. The writing is still in small print, only “Warning” in big enough letters. The stop sign circularly red is so attempting for me to press down. “Warning” I read again, I am still walking as fast as I can, swinging my arms back and forward, still trying to avoid his gaze. But, he taps on the glass and I have to look up. He says, “I’m happier without you than with you.” Smile indifferently while chewing on a chocolate chips cookie. “So, NO,” he stresses on the no, “I don’t want you in my life. Between the continuum of Love You and Love You Not, I am placing myself nearest to the Love You Not scale. I can’t see a future with the two of us in it. This is the end of the road. I am sorry that I hurt you, but I am not sorry for letting go.” He flutters his wings, and hover from side to side, looking at me like nothing happen, like it’s a matter of fact, like telling me the weather condition outside under the tropical sun is sunny, bright, 30 degree Celsius, mild wind. Then, he is gone. Gone from the window and gone in every sense of existence. He lets go of my hand, both in my vivid imagination, and in the reality of my every waking moment.
My legs turn weary, exhaustion creeps in, and my finger runs itself to the stop red button, while the warning sign seems to get bigger with each second past. I crash, in a pile on the mill, my head spinning, my heart racing, my sweats running down blending with my cascading tears. The line between my imagination and my vivid surrounding smudged collapsing into one another. I lost grip of myself, I lost grip of my sense of being. In a pile, I stay, shaking, wrapping my arms around my knees. My brain yells in protest, “Sarah! Sarah! Snap out of it! Sarah! Get a hold of yourself! Sarah! Now! Move on! Move on!” I am still here, in a pile on the mill. “Sarah… Sarah…” a strong hand on my shoulder shocks me back to the living, Noval, the Personal Trainer, “Are you ok?” asks him in alarm. “Yes … yes, I’m ok, just fainted for awhile there, I missed breakfast this morning, I’m ok now,” toweling my face to wipe away sweat and tears, I answer in small voice, probably non-coherent to him but that is the only thing that I can master now and try to stand up leaning on his arms. The wiggly hamster still crumples in pile, on the treadmill that I just step out from, still with tears cascading silently from her eyes, hugging her body close to herself.