The warm stupor of weekday afternoons spent languidly slouched over the page of my chemistry notebook. I try to keep awake, eye-lids heavy and mind at great unrest. The man being paid to fill up the gaps of my education tries so very hard.
Between those free hours I have noticed that the boy sitting in front of me has arch-long legs like a raphaelite beauty; the soles of his shoes seeing better days. We speed past the park and I can’t stop laughing. Minutes later; I am relishing the feel of the humid breeze running through my hair as I zoom past the neighbourhood on a bicycle that is not mine.
So here I am. Sitting in the mamak nursing one two many neslo-ais-kosong/teh-si-ais-kosong, listening to an Indian man reason out why this year Anwar will win. My New-Statesman dealer is off gallivanting in Morocco and Switzerland, and I can no longer have the energy to keep up my old habits. I am growing old.
And here I am, too. Waiting impatiently outside the principal’s office with translated copies of the same proposal. IÂ am worried, because I need everything in black and white. After all those years of learning, I am now left at the helm. Holding on with fear, holding on happily.
Anna Wintour, Tyler Brule, Marvin Scott Jarrett.
My bedroom floor is littered with magazines that I have yet to finish reading; old and new; and the polo-t-shirts of my brother’s that I have now claimed mine. There is a bouquet of dying flowers decomposing in my kitchen, and earrings on my dresser that I won’t be able to wear. He is beautiful, but he doesn’t mean a thing to me.
My laptop, feeling, looking forlorn. There are so many emails I need to write, too many I need to reply. My Wordpress screaming PATCHMEUPDATEMEDE-SPAMME.
To my friends here and away; hope you all are very well. I am alive, but I am hardly ever here.