Eat you up alive
I don’t know what “alive” means. A dead end in the hallway; an absence of signposts.
Sometimes I lie on the floor and hate the unidentifiable belongings around me. Sometimes I sit and feel my insides balloon. I’m not sure if helium is a laughing gas; I’m not sure if water is a necessity. Silence is sinister and all I want is sleep.
The world is too distant. And I wonder if my heart that is beating in my womb will ever morph into one with my brain. It’s good to have neighbours in the house behind yours; eating and drinking – dining table communion, it’s a comforting sound.
I wonder if anything else is here with me. I wonder if they are in me. Sometimes I walk between the streets of udang and emas and raja and batu, but never hijau. Batu is a climb my body can no longer overcome. My stomach is an organ that no longer functions. An intelligent child will recite “paralysing fear”, though Tessie said to drop the damn adjectives. Apparently she is right and I don’t want what she told us to do without.
Sometimes I neglect the shadows lingering in my peripheral vision and am ambivalent about sanity. If globalisation is a code I need an enzyme reverse transcriptase. I hate the sound of foot steps and I am not leaving this chair. But I want to sleep, and I need someone to watch me, remind me that disparity is a wide spectrum, that my internal entropy is not decreasing. That I still can be alive.