Broken
It was another rainy day. Sluggishly I climbed the stairs. I could hear the couple in the second storey fighting again. Lately it had not been only verbal but with a layering cacophony – dull thud, the sound of glass crashing to the floor -- like a song with a bad arrangement, like an orchestra missing all its cues. The landlady had left a note again in front of my door. You haven't paid for this month's rent.
I shed my drenched clothes and took a hot shower. A tune was playing in the next room. What A Wonderful World. At that moment the world did seem wonderful. The spray of hot water against the skin was wonderful. In that cramped shower cubicle I often crouched – the feeling of curling up, of making oneself smaller is relieving. I'm so small against the world -- Sometimes we need to accept that to move on, to make changes, to become big. Paradoxical as it may be, there I was, feeling every droplet splash against my skin, rivulets down the ridges, trying to find its way down. I stayed still. How I wished for the time to stay still as well – Does time even exist?
By the time I awoke from the philosophical discourse, the rain had stopped, the tune had died down, the night is still. I walked back to my room in a daze. The room was in similar confused state with my mind – a mess: unmade bed, clothes and books strewn all over and a broken PC on the desk, sitting there like an usurped king refused to give up his throne. There’s a literary term for it I remember. Macrocosm and microcosm? Big world and small world. Like when King Lear was out in the storm, a storm was raging in his heart, too – But in this case while my room was like a shipwreck, my mind was more like the aftermath of a tsunami.
Earlier that morning I was on my way to college. The train was very cramped, as usual; an old lady was catching her breath, coming in just in time before the doors closed – no one was giving her a seat. Probably someone did offer her but she declined it. Probably the young man sitting in front of her has knee injury. Probably her stop is near, so she does not need to sit. Probably, probably. Even though I was not sitting myself, I felt embarrassed and conjuring up those excuses in my mind offered distraction.
Sitting on my bed, I pondered about why I felt embarrassed earlier. After all, it was not me. After all, I could not do anything. Whom I felt embarrassed for? The word ‘humanity’ passed through my mind but I quickly dismissed it. Embarrassed for humanity? Probably. But blaming humanity on the whole doesn’t help much. Sounds very noble, lamenting for humanity, but then what? Probably felt guilty as part of the younger generation? That’s still too abstract. Then I realized that I was feeling for myself. For not being able to lash out at the people sitting to give their seats to the poor breathless lady. For being ignorant. For not even offering kind words to her.
Embarrassing. It was kind of that also when I considered calling my parents for help. I was in financial pit. I had barely enough to pay rent and college fee. I imagined the faces of my parents. The blank and cold space between them on bed was more than that. Emotionally, the chasm was already impossible to shut. I couldn’t stand the sight – my father drowning in beers and my mother in her tears. I was relieved I had to go to college, a perfect excuse to get away from it all. I didn’t really want to chime in again, creating more problems for my parents as if there aren’t already any.
Earlier that day after the morning classes, I went to search for work but to no avail. It was sweltering hot – no wonder it rained in the evening, the heat was the precursor. I tried to get a friend to take a look at my PC. “Your baby is dead. Give it up, buy a new one,” he said, after just a peek inside the CPU. He didn’t even switch it on. Well, I knew it wouldn’t switch on anyway but how he knew I just couldn’t figure.
In the afternoon, the rain started to pour. I was waiting for a bus. There in the bus stop I saw a girl around my age. She was leaning to the advertisement board at the bus stop. I didn’t pay much attention, except for her slightly awkward standing position. The bus came. The seats were all occupied. At the front was a young woman in business suit. Behind her was an elderly lady. Then I noticed the girl from earlier. She boarded the same bus. She was walking very slowly, knees bent, grabbing support along the way. The old lady quickly stood up and gestured her to sit. It all seemed to happen in a flash. I was still stunned even when the girl uttered a weak thank-you to the old lady. I felt different feelings from that morning. Maybe I no longer felt embarrassed for humanity? Sure I still felt funny about the businesswoman who was nearer to the girl but failed to stand up, but I felt that there was kindness, there was warmth left in humanity. Perhaps somehow my parents would go back together, stitching up their broken relationship. Perhaps somehow I would go back to my room finding a new PC sent from a stranger. But that’s not very likely, I guess.
I shed my drenched clothes and took a hot shower. A tune was playing in the next room. What A Wonderful World. At that moment the world did seem wonderful. The spray of hot water against the skin was wonderful. In that cramped shower cubicle I often crouched – the feeling of curling up, of making oneself smaller is relieving. I'm so small against the world -- Sometimes we need to accept that to move on, to make changes, to become big. Paradoxical as it may be, there I was, feeling every droplet splash against my skin, rivulets down the ridges, trying to find its way down. I stayed still. How I wished for the time to stay still as well – Does time even exist?
By the time I awoke from the philosophical discourse, the rain had stopped, the tune had died down, the night is still. I walked back to my room in a daze. The room was in similar confused state with my mind – a mess: unmade bed, clothes and books strewn all over and a broken PC on the desk, sitting there like an usurped king refused to give up his throne. There’s a literary term for it I remember. Macrocosm and microcosm? Big world and small world. Like when King Lear was out in the storm, a storm was raging in his heart, too – But in this case while my room was like a shipwreck, my mind was more like the aftermath of a tsunami.
Earlier that morning I was on my way to college. The train was very cramped, as usual; an old lady was catching her breath, coming in just in time before the doors closed – no one was giving her a seat. Probably someone did offer her but she declined it. Probably the young man sitting in front of her has knee injury. Probably her stop is near, so she does not need to sit. Probably, probably. Even though I was not sitting myself, I felt embarrassed and conjuring up those excuses in my mind offered distraction.
Sitting on my bed, I pondered about why I felt embarrassed earlier. After all, it was not me. After all, I could not do anything. Whom I felt embarrassed for? The word ‘humanity’ passed through my mind but I quickly dismissed it. Embarrassed for humanity? Probably. But blaming humanity on the whole doesn’t help much. Sounds very noble, lamenting for humanity, but then what? Probably felt guilty as part of the younger generation? That’s still too abstract. Then I realized that I was feeling for myself. For not being able to lash out at the people sitting to give their seats to the poor breathless lady. For being ignorant. For not even offering kind words to her.
Embarrassing. It was kind of that also when I considered calling my parents for help. I was in financial pit. I had barely enough to pay rent and college fee. I imagined the faces of my parents. The blank and cold space between them on bed was more than that. Emotionally, the chasm was already impossible to shut. I couldn’t stand the sight – my father drowning in beers and my mother in her tears. I was relieved I had to go to college, a perfect excuse to get away from it all. I didn’t really want to chime in again, creating more problems for my parents as if there aren’t already any.
Earlier that day after the morning classes, I went to search for work but to no avail. It was sweltering hot – no wonder it rained in the evening, the heat was the precursor. I tried to get a friend to take a look at my PC. “Your baby is dead. Give it up, buy a new one,” he said, after just a peek inside the CPU. He didn’t even switch it on. Well, I knew it wouldn’t switch on anyway but how he knew I just couldn’t figure.
In the afternoon, the rain started to pour. I was waiting for a bus. There in the bus stop I saw a girl around my age. She was leaning to the advertisement board at the bus stop. I didn’t pay much attention, except for her slightly awkward standing position. The bus came. The seats were all occupied. At the front was a young woman in business suit. Behind her was an elderly lady. Then I noticed the girl from earlier. She boarded the same bus. She was walking very slowly, knees bent, grabbing support along the way. The old lady quickly stood up and gestured her to sit. It all seemed to happen in a flash. I was still stunned even when the girl uttered a weak thank-you to the old lady. I felt different feelings from that morning. Maybe I no longer felt embarrassed for humanity? Sure I still felt funny about the businesswoman who was nearer to the girl but failed to stand up, but I felt that there was kindness, there was warmth left in humanity. Perhaps somehow my parents would go back together, stitching up their broken relationship. Perhaps somehow I would go back to my room finding a new PC sent from a stranger. But that’s not very likely, I guess.
Free
I sluggishly got out of the bed and went to the kitchen. My head was still hurting. The alcohol from the previous night was a little over the top, but then, it had always been that way. After quenching my parched throat, my body failed to move again. No it was more like the sense of balance is turned off and there was I, in constant vertigo. I was addicted to this intoxication, the feeling of being liberated from having to be conscious about moving – about doing, about being. Only during this moment I don't care about who I am, who I was, who I will be. Time didn't exist, neither did space; do I myself exist? Around this point of philosophical discourse, usually, the body would send the signals – the signals that re-establish the boundaries of reality, the freedom was just an illusion. The unbearable migraine, the pangs of hunger, the extreme thirst.
Of course, I also enjoyed the release of the alter-ego when the alcohol kicked in. When self-restraints are sent flying out of the window; when the inner, truer self breaks free. People always tell me how astonished they are when they witness what a drastic turn my personality takes when flooded by alcohol. I'm sure the sight of the timid man who always keeps to his own cubicle spouting vulgarities to strangers is really shocking. When asked which is my true personality, I honestly don't know. On one hand, abiding to the common code of civil conducts is fine, but sometimes there are things or people that try your patience. In a sense, it is indeed freedom, since the things are manifestation of what cannot be said or conducted within boundaries of self-control.
But I didn't think of these things when I was slithering on the cold marble floor, clutching my head as the throbs of pains struck like a thousand needles – the price to pay for transient liberation. My hand reached out to the kitchen top. The glass fell and made a crashing sound; individual droplets scattering in all directions in slow motion. The sight of my wife at the door, shaking her head, already desensitised by the sight, thinking that there was I again, wallowing in self-created, illusionary freedom. But to me the freedom was real, as real as all these things. Why would you need to break free from being free?
Of course, I also enjoyed the release of the alter-ego when the alcohol kicked in. When self-restraints are sent flying out of the window; when the inner, truer self breaks free. People always tell me how astonished they are when they witness what a drastic turn my personality takes when flooded by alcohol. I'm sure the sight of the timid man who always keeps to his own cubicle spouting vulgarities to strangers is really shocking. When asked which is my true personality, I honestly don't know. On one hand, abiding to the common code of civil conducts is fine, but sometimes there are things or people that try your patience. In a sense, it is indeed freedom, since the things are manifestation of what cannot be said or conducted within boundaries of self-control.
But I didn't think of these things when I was slithering on the cold marble floor, clutching my head as the throbs of pains struck like a thousand needles – the price to pay for transient liberation. My hand reached out to the kitchen top. The glass fell and made a crashing sound; individual droplets scattering in all directions in slow motion. The sight of my wife at the door, shaking her head, already desensitised by the sight, thinking that there was I again, wallowing in self-created, illusionary freedom. But to me the freedom was real, as real as all these things. Why would you need to break free from being free?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)