I was complaining to a friend a few days back about the amount of work that I had undone. I wasn’t talking about the daily muddle that I am perpetually in. When I have nothing else to do, I lean on the undone work to give me a sense of purpose. I was talking more about the million dreams that I seem to come up with every waking second. From cleaning my room, to climbing Mt Everest and everything in between, there’s nothing but colourful dreams and a fairy tale world to be explored. There’s also a list of things that I’d like to do again.
I’d like to go back to Mt Everest. I haven’t ever climbed that place, but I did go to Nepal when I was 4. I don’t remember anything except memories fabricated by looking at photographs. My dad’s not the greatest photographer and he simply hasn’t captured the grandeur of that lovely tall peak. Perhaps it isn’t grand at all. Either way, I’d like to see it again.
Few years ago, I was at Penang. The hotel we stayed at was next to the beach. I remember walking on that beach on a moonlit night, with my parents many yards behind me. I remember breathing fully for the first time in many months. I wasn’t romantic enough back then, to hold that moment in my heart or even to try and stop time. I remember now that the lighting was diffused, the waves were tender, the sand was soft and I should have, had I been in my senses, got completely lost in the serenity of it all. I did something like go and shut myself in the room and sleep. I’d like to go back to that beach and reclaim that moment, that belongs to me. My vocabulary back then also didn’t consist of warm fellows and woolen sweaters. It does now. Someday I’d like to go back to Penang, sweaters and all.
When I was a kid my mom had a knack of covering me up with the blanket in one swift motion. Every toe, every finger, every frill of my frock would get covered in that blanket. I used to sit for hours, feeling cold, but would not cover myself up, until my mom came and did it. And then I grew up. It wasn’t right anymore for my mom to put that blanket over me. It wasn’t right for me to confess to anyone, any kind of fear. Grown-ups after all, were fearless. So was I. I also grew much bigger and I don’t think its possible for mom to cover me up with one swift motion anymore. I’d still like to go back to being tiny and vulnerable and be in a world where it was alright to cry in the middle of the night.
The list is endless and I could go on and on. One of these days I’m going to have to rip off my mushy personality from me and throw it into a bin. Until then, though, tiny whims are here to stay. So is hope for a better day.