I am lost- the daily, the mundane, no shore on sight.
I am sinking, drowning in the everyday.
The sun and rain watch in glee
As darkness and light play games-
Emotions numb.
Time is racing, merging
Hours roll into one another.
Where am I meant to go-
Purposeless and vague.
I almost want to give up
As joy is as always elusive.
The end is endless
Alluring and blissful
Sweet nothingness
I rise as I sink.
Another day at work!
Sometimes I feel that I am exactly where I was five years ago when I landed in this place I now call home.
It is home yet not really. But the country I left behind doesn’t seem to belong so where do I do belong? I am a stranger in my adopted country and a guest in the other.
My life is a blur of Mondays that merge into Fridays and disappearing weekends. I exist yet I don’t feel alive, I smile but I’ve forgotten to laugh. I breathe into endless nothingness, walk to no destination.
I pause with heads bent, the sun and light meaningless in their beauty- to be seen yet not visible.
Tired eyes, exhausted mind, a brain dulled by randomness, by a lack of goal.
Five years have gone, I have changed yet I’m the same. Clueless. Where do I go from here- purpose unknown. Numb.
I have stopped writing. The thought of who is going to comment or what people are going to interpret stops me. Fear of fear, the kind that freezes you.
The discovery of WordPress- a writer’s platform instead of being inspirational has only made me realise how insignificant I am as opposed to all the talented, like minded souls here. I, therefore, mostly continue with my mental notes and struggle with the thoughts that are bursting for a release, characters asking to be heard until they move out on their own accord…immortalised.
I somehow never ever see her at the train station, or getting on the bus somewhere along the way but she has an uncanny way of appearing just as I get off the bus to walk home. A small lady, bright in yellow, a backpack and one word communication.
The first time we met, she seemed a little disappointed when her “Ni Hou” didn’t magically make me remember my non existent foreign language skills. But despite that, the four minutes of mono syllabic answers was enough to get over the basics of name, country and house number. Just ask we realised that we were neighbours and only a few seconds to a safe escape, she started frantically gesturing, waving, pointing to her stomach and arms, literally. And while I was already thinking of possible polite excuses to refuse her invitation to go to her house, she was going through her interesting looking bag .
A couple of yellow smiles later, I was handed triumphant nods and flyers. And a card which I’m pleased to say were in characters which I hadn’t mastered yet.
At that moment, language crossed barriers of mere words or sounds. She understood nothing I guess or actually she did that I seemed to be a prime candidate for her, a new business prospect. Armed with a handful of the goodies, and ‘call me’ I was home and so were the flyers. The characters were as Greek to me as they were Chinese.
The next day, I once again found myself walking alongside her. Exhausted, a little wiser, I was less communicative but that didn’t deter her. She, it seems, was intent on what she wanted. More flyers, and another card- this time in English. Ginseng. Well if that wasn’t her name, it was definitely what she was selling.
The next time I was very clever. I spotted the yellow bee getting off from the rear end of the bus. I pretended I was on the phone (it was on silent in case I got caught), and with the brightest smile, casual wave as if I was going somewhere else, I hid. I don’t exactly live in a very green neighbourhood, so I had to make do with whatever little tree, trailer, lamp post I could find. I tip-toed, and followed her from a safe hidden distance until I saw her disappear.
In what I thought was a smart move, I refused to even acknowledge her the following day- instead of hiding, I walked ahead. The fastest I could or the fastest I ever had, afraid to look back, hearing the persistent footstep on the cobbled street. I almost ran into my house and heart pounding, breathless, I anticipated the door to ring. I’ve never been so happy that I live in a country where one cannot knock on anyone’s door without prior intimation or permission.
This has been going on for a few weeks now. I sometimes lead, or follow or even pretend she doesn’t exist but the yellow never fades. I take the earlier bus, the later one but no matter what I am stalked. I am afraid, afraid that she will make me thin with all the hide and seek and Ginseng. The fear is a game, the escape – a destination.
She is like a ghost. What bothers me is that I absolutely do not see her at the bus stop, nor do I see her getting on the bus along the route but she appears just as my overworked mind heads off on the last four minutes walk home. It’s a story my friends and work love to hear about. My house mate, Emiko, even took the bus with me one day hoping to meet her but she wasn’t there that day.
Sometimes I wonder if she isn’t real, a figment of my over-active, unexpressed mind, a character of the imagination. But the cards look real and the flyers do too. I have decided that the next time I see her, I will stop, talk to her, take a picture or even buy the stuff- anything that will free the truth and leave me alone.
Yellow is a strong, visible colours as opposed to the white. She haunts, follows me- I run.
Where was it when she looked?
She spent a lifetime in meaningful searches, amongst friends and relationships reaching for it that could never be found.
Was it in the smiles that never touched the soul or in the words that remained unspoken? Was it in the friends that could’ve been or the special people that she never let in?The crippling anticipated pain that is the completing half of happiness always won.
The presence of the ‘what if’ that loomed everywhere, just a minute too late to be captured. The shadows that lurked in the night to arouse hope of capture only to disappear in the surreal light of day.
So near yet at an arm’s lenght. Scared to embrace the warmth, a strange fear that it might stay as an annoying friend.
The joy always masked to disguise, to fool fate into dispersing any pain that comes with being happy.
She finds it finally only to realize that she always had it. It was in little things, big things. In the people she met and lost. But above all, in her soul that watched the world from above.
The regret of being six feet under to finally enjoy what she realizes. Lost chances, opportunities and ‘what could’ve been’.
The page is white
A canvas of emotions,
The colors faded
The brush broken.
Dark and grey
The colors appear,
Smudged and unclear
They remain hidden.
They that seek
Are to find,
That what appears outside
Is not what they see.
The colour white
Holds all of it,
That what remains unseen
Was always there.
You are the colour
The picture you need,
What you create
Is what you see.
The smell of oranges
mixed with burnt wood,
the chill of the mighty mountains.
She closes her eyes
to find herself home again.
So far, yet so near.
The ‘race horse’ like existence,
the run to the race,
people, faces, friends,
they exist yet outside her reach,
close, surrounded
so near yet so far.
She sighs as she listens,
to the silence of the sounds
unheard, unspoken yet so clear.
The dawn has broken
After long dark nights
The time has come.
Her bags packed,
the memories all wrapped with care.
The chill beckons
as does the river,
swollen with tears
but now calm.
She awaits,
to reach, to unpack,
to a home so far away.
The innocence of the mountains,
the warmth of the fireside,
the laughter of love,
is where she truly belongs.
It is time now to go home now,
Near- yet so far!
They came in fours
Just a knock on the door,
A punch and a kick
A fall and some tears.
The stinging sounds
Unconscious almost
The nightmare continued.
She lay broken and bruised
Soaked in red and blue
Lonely and alone.
She listened on the line,
Her friend, helpless.
Battered body,frightened
the cries unheard
The cowards listened
But not to hear.
The face healed
The blood washed off
But the scars never will.
The soul is dark
As the memories remain
Never to be erased.
Fear haunts her
Trust is gone
Years go by
But the heart is still.
He thought he broke her
But she still stands strong
Layers of abuse
But not broken still.
Life has been cruel
But love overrules
As she faces life
Alone but strong.
Never take in abuse
You don’t deserve it-
Fight for yourself
No matter what it takes.
A woman has-
More than what it takes.
My mind is a jumble of conversations as I have mental questions answer sessions with myself. I write as I commute to work. A strangers reaction to my door touching her car…The owner in her element resorting to a bully as she tries to show me an almost invisible white paint on her dirty blue car. I almost feel sorry for her that she is such a horrible person, sorry that she has to live with herself every day of her life. As I sit down for a dinner with friends, I make mental notes and limit questionnaires to myself. Why is it that technology beats conversation, ‘selfies’ are more interesting than the company? The present is lost in saving for the future. I recollect and edit on my way home. I edit as I listen not to listen. Maybe the bully was sick, maybe she has a abusive past or maybe she just had a bad day. I’ll know for sure if I get a call from her insurance company. Maybe the self obsessed is the lonely person within and the art of conversation is no longer an art. A sporadic moment, a sudden inspiration are all recorded. The unwritten manuscripts filed in random for the right time. I am a stalker. I have suddenly caught the ‘blog bug’ as wordpress features as a prominent short cut on my mobile screen. I stalk and read every blog that I can find, I make mental replies even as I go. They inspire and motivate to make a story of everyday nothingness. Like my fall. The beautiful chilly evening, the exciting half yearly sales and prospects of joyous shopping rudely shattered when I missed a step. In front of a major shopping centre. I would prefer to think no one saw me. Reflexes accelerated by embarrassment and taking advantage of the failing light and the heads bent over screens, I picked myself faster than spiderman or Rajnikant and walked quickly to a darker corner to limp and check my bruises and my ego. My newly colored hair matched my face- a highlight of reds! But right now as I bask in the perfect winter Sunday sun, stunning blue and a distant lawnmower, I fail to understand why is it that we attach so much of importance to ‘falling’. Is it associated with ‘ failing’? Both lead me to memory. My memory which is failing as I fall. I fall prey to actions that fade as I try to remember. I turn on the computer and I fail. I fail to remember what I meant to do. I face bursts of temporary memory loss. Sometimes with intent but mostly unintentionally. Insignificant stuffs I would like to think but a loss nevertheless. I continue to confuse my right with left and the number nine with six. The supposedly size 6 shoe that I was to return only to discover just in time that it was actually a nine. The confirmation also meant the shoe fit despite the six tries earlier. The jumble eases as it reorders words to express it’s desire. To be heard. Mental to the physical form. The heartbeat that is heard in silence, the stories written in the mind. The right time is still not right as nine is still a nine. 
The train at 07:50 everyone morning brings hope for all commuters. I am among the hopefuls. There was a time when I used to have my fingers crossed for a seat….any seat- window, aisle I didn’t care.
Days passed and then the weeks…I tried all possible openings. The last compartment, the middle, the first…..but seats continued to elude me. A year later my neighborhood is growing and so are the hopefuls. These days I’m happy just to find a good standing spot.
There are advantages to standing…I’ve by now almost memorized the Melbourne map, if I’m lucky I can enjoy the view outside, or just observe whoever are my nearest neighbours, share their music and FB surfing and maybe even have adventures.
It was one of those days- the train was late and when it finally arrived, packed. I almost don’t get in but someone pushed me and I found myself like ‘Lilliput in the land of giants’, left among the shoes….pointed shoes, black shoes, red…hundreds of them. The Giants had the advantage so I was left to innovate and cement my stand.
A few minutes into mastering the art of balancing ballet stretches, aching stretched right arm and coffee in my left, senses alert for expected track changes, I felt something move. The obvious move was the train and then my pocket. I did a dracula head turn ( the rest of my body parts were immobile) to find a startled face holding what suspiciously looked like my phone, unless guys were into carrying pink.
I looked at him and then the phone, I couldn’t figure out who was more embarrassed. I turned a shade of red, I released my stretched arm and removed the offender from his hand. There was no resistance, just silent looks from both sides. I knew he was a thief and he knew he was a thief, we both knew what had happened…A kind of mutual understanding.
After the exchange I turned back, put the offending victim in my handbag, heart beating …I almost forgot that I wasn’t the guilty one. Mission unaccomplished, the gang (I realized then that there were three of them but strategically placed) closed on me and smoothly displaced me to perhaps find another victim.
I found myself face to face with a lady and two supposedly gentlemen who refused to make eye contact even when the Aussie lady loudly offered me her seat two times.
The two men, desi as we call ourselves, continued to stare at their shoes and mobiles. I was being subtly bullied and it took an Aussie to stand up for me. My ingrained moral science lessons made me refuse her offer (she was an elder!) but the intervention got the gang off my case.Flushed and relieved, I ran to another compartment at the next stop.
My friends couldn’t believe that I didn’t raise my voice and get the thief caught. In my defense, those three were junkies and loud and filthy and lived in my neighborhood. I don’t exactly blend in the environment with my almost chinky eyes and yellow skin and to be fair on myself, my movements are also almost repetitive.
I therefore chose to retrieve my stolen property and remain quiet. I could be wrong in doing so but I’m not overly excited about the thoughts being followed and sought after! I’ve watched more than enough ‘Midsomer Murders’ to my liking.
As the 0750 approaches every morning, I diligently stand behind the yellow line as instructed and continue to be hopeful. The rare times I get a seat, I inevitably find someone who qualifies for my seat and I end up standing.
One day I had a sore wrist so I boarded with a very visible white bandaged wrist, confident that would guarantee me a sitting spot. But as usual I barely made it to the map next to the door…I made the necessary pitiful looks but my only Oscar audience were my fellow victims and the door.
The one time I was successful was the day when I was unwell…There was an empty seat but a guy beat me to it. Desperate I broke the code of silence and said ‘Please, can I sit?’ With all eyes on him, he didn’t stand a chance.
I continue to look for clues and formulas to find the perfect spot that helps me bag the coveted seat every morning but until then I am content to memorize the map.
(My mobile safely in my hand or my bag). And on a positive note, while my friends sit to work, I have stories to tell.
Shadow of Silence
The mind mirrors a hazy light ,
the day appears dark
I exist like a shadow,
seen but not to be heard
I am invisible,
I scream from an invisible world
Silence answers loud and clear.
The story unfurls
When the time is right.
The eyes that cannot see
Is seen by the soul
Invisible, yet not so.
Shadows remain in the dark
Constant but unseen.
Fake faces
disguised in smiles
the real and the unreal
unclear and unknown.
The mirror reflects me
in silence, invisible.
My cry remains
unheard, unseen
lost in the shadow of the dark.
My world hidden
as is the truth
I tell my story
to be heard in my silence
to be seen in the dark.
I cry out from my shadows
the one that cannot be seen
is only seen by the soul.
Zeena (19/4/2014)
