looking down

the bus passed by the church for the third time today, around one in the morning, and i spied, beyond the structures of the floral walls already set up in preparation of the grand celebrations next month, the shadow of a man kneeling on the ground outside the chained gates of the church. the image touched me. the darkness as though seeping through my soul, imprinted that image upon my mind, and i'm left wondering who it was.

i imagine a frayed polo shirt. brown, worn loafers. a plea for release, or a plea for benovelence. or perhaps, a plea for self. just like the plea i'm thinking of.

the other day, a student of mine asked why i'm always clad in black. and then i realised that as a teacher, it's probably not the questions on the academic stuff that frequently stump you. it's the minor, causual, veiled-in-simplicity questions that probe things about yourself that you never realised was so obvious to those around you. and questions that i cannot answer, are just left there as they are.

it's going to be the 100th day since grandma passed on into eternal life this september. my parents have started wearing pink and purple, but not red. i've not started wearing pink or purple, only tops or bottoms of dull colours with the occassional tiny print of red, pink or orange. but i don't proclaim to be a saint. it's no longer part of mourning that i remain clad in dull coloured clothes. i can't say that her death taught me alot either. the death of a loved one, as with all passings, reminds us all that everything is but transitory - that we all turn into ashes at the end of it all.

i resented my job when i was so drained after a day of teaching that all i wanted was to just get home and sleep, despite knowing that her days were numbered, and that perhaps i could provide some form of comfort just being there, holding her hand and watching her sleep. i resent myself for wishing that i didn't have to watch her wither away, and for thinking that watching her wither was all-too-draining for me. it is never easy seeing someone slip away before your very eyes - the sadness that i never experienced before - it was almost too much for me to bear. the weighty feel of grief - it tired me out, and i, who was already drained from work and worry, failed to grasp the remaining time i had with her. i don't know if i've forgiven myself. on the outside, i can smile. i can smile remembering her, because she was such a gentle soul that i knew no blame would ever be attributed to me.

i mourn myself - the non-existence of an identity.



***



the sharp pain - what i will never forget. i was dizzy from the pain.
weekends and the city doesn't sleep. the bridge of dreams. music. the want of dance.

***

the man with no face speaks to her. looking at the smooth grooves of his face, she feels no fear. it is just like being in a doctor's office, without the fear or anticipation of things to come. but there are no medical instruments, no cabinets filled with medicine, no faded posters of babies on the matted walls. there is a hard brown sofa, she can't remember the tiles on the floor, because staring at the white that was his face was so intoxicating enough.
in his face, she found that she could remember things more clearly. she recalled and looking deeper past the absymal white, she saw images of the past. images that had escaped her until then. remembering, they all didn't seem quite that far away. details that she'd long let go of came rushing back. she remembers wondering whether it was a good thing that her mind was just like a tap which could be turned on at whim. and who had turned it off so tightly that she had to open her eyes to the whiteness in order to see?

then she sees the white no more. immersed in images of the past, she flails , twisting and turning as they all rush together, combating the years past, worming their way into each and every crevice. tormenting the passages of time and flailing past the tunnels of darkness.

she immerses her pretty feet into water and inhales the smell of lavendar essential oil from an oil burner. a woman whose face she cannot remember gently massages her feet and she leans back and closes her eyes.

she is running on a dirt track and it is almost night. there is mud splattered on her white track shoes and her laces are matted with dirt. the ground is soft and squishy. she feels caked dirt hitting her shins as she tries to run faster and the back of her shoes throws up dirt, only to allow them to land on her calves. the distance she runs is no longer proportionate to the effort she puts in while running. the reduction in speed is not without a reason. she hears the roar of a car and turns to see a black utility vehicle approaching from a distance. eyes narrowing into slits, she tries to see who is in the vehicle.

flashing tailgates and the nervous laugh of anticipation.
he gets out of the driver's seat and slams the door hard. she waits for him to open the door on her side. the silence is overpowering. there is such a deep silence that she needs to put her hands to her ears and scream for a split second. to validate her existence. to allow herself to be aware that she is still alive, in the darkness. without knowledge of things around her, she falls and forgets that she exists. she is reminded of the time she was caught in a small, dark tunnel. unable to move back or forth, she felt goosebumps creep up all over her and the acrid taste of fear in her mouth. cold sweat trickling down her back, as it did now. mercifully or unmercifully, the door on her side opens, and she is dragged out. she hears him slamming the door shut, but she no longer hears anything from then on. she feels herself being pressed against the shut door and the force of that causing the door's exterior to be bent inwards. she places her arms behind her and her fingers reach to the top of her thighs. she digs her nails into the back of her thighs, but the pain is not sharp enough and she pinches herself instead.
the next day while showering, she feels a dull pain, either coming from her wounds or from herself. it seems difficult to differentiate.

it was just like the other day when she had drunk too much the night before and she woke up for a cup of coffee. opening the newspapers, she saw the letters floating around in the air, as though engaging in a word play and she had run to the toilet and thrown up.

a recent memory - the night before, she had dressed in a white tank top, a denim miniskirt and knee high black boots. looking for the toilet, a white man who looked half drunk whistled at her and mouthed the words, sex bomb at her. she found it getting easier to ignore people as the days passed. after all, they were always having their own preconceived notions of others and nothing could really change that. she regretted however, the time outside a greek restaurant when she was frantically delving through her bag and a man from inside the restaurant had actually come out of the restaurant to ask if she was alright, if she found what she was looking for. the shock from the man approaching her had put her on her guard and she scurried away. and looking back, she should have told that man that she didn't quite find it, and even as an afterthought, say that - yes, i've lost it. i know.
back to the night before, a cutesy blonde in an attire quite similar to her get-up walked out of the washroom, went up to the white man and hopped on one foot in front of him, while whinning about how long the others were taking in the toilet. seeing her going towards the toilet though, the blonde rushed back in to regain her place in the queue and grumbles to her instead, how they had all taken such a long time. the blonde pointed at one of the cubicles and whispers conspirally at her, "that one's taking really long, probably having a bad day." for want of something to say, she has nothing to say but replies, "bad day?" and the cutesy blonde nods.

a tongue reaches into her ear. a tongue so full of filth and grime that she has to bite her knuckles, first, to prevent herself from screaming in disgust and secondly, to stop herself from shuddering, over and over again.

it was just like a normal day, the sun beating down on the concrete. the smell of grease from the nearby food centres filling the air. crossing the road, she suddenly catches sight of the same utility vehicle, and she pauses in horror. she feels her legs turn numb and then feeling as though they could no longer hold her up. she stumbles to the green railings nearby and feels fear course through her. the driver's seat is empty. she turns back and in her haste, cannot make her way on her heels as swiftly enough as she wishes she could. turning back, fear written all over her face, she sees the face of someone she is more than happy to see, creased all over in puzzlement.

those shards, dribblets of memories are more than enough. she realises that she has been gripping the edge of the brown leather couch so tightly that her nails hurt, and that perhaps, was a reminder that enough was enough. the man with the white face was gone. without her even realising. there were walls around her. the rooms was the same. she looked around wildly.

there was no door.