The Jade Table for Two

There was this posh jade table for two at the front corner of my favourite joint. I loved to sit there and admire its artistic features; its perfectly round cut, semi-opaque (yet at the same time, rich) green colour, and rather coarse texture. It became a special spot to unwind whenever I visited. A safe haven, even, where no random friends could just sit across mine and listen to whatever things I had in mind. Just like any other sensible human beings on the planet, I chose my company carefully.

I went to the restaurant one day in a pretty bad shape. I felt like I was on the edge; the inside of my head tensed up from all the things that went south that week. All I could think about was giving myself an ample time to calm down in solitude. I guessed it simply made sense to do so. And so what happened next was totally out of my foresight.

"Meeru?" I heard someone called my name. "You okay?"

I lifted my face and found a man standing in front of my jade table. I knew him for quite a long time already, but as I traced down my memory, I realised that I hardly talked to him. It was not surprising that we stumbled upon each other there, though. I heard he often roamed around the area.

"Handa," I gave him a slight nod while flashing a polite smile. I must have been looking pretty ghastly that he could see through my emotional state at a glance. There was no point in hiding something that was so obvious, so I plainly replied comme ci comme ça.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked.

I would normally (and harshly) decline such a request, but there was this inexplicable gravity pulling me into saying that I did not mind. The next thing I knew, he took a seat across mine, and we talked for hours. 

A Simple Fire Pit

She spent one serene, rainy night sitting by a fire pit. It was on a whim. There was no expectation whatsoever from the agenda, except from being able to just stare blankly into the flame and let her body cradled by the swinging hammock. Her gaze might appear empty, but not the mind behind.

For some moments, she forgot that grieving was not only about mourning the deceased, but also about losing other things. Grief had been throwing her out of balance, engulfing her in a storm of countless (and often unrecognizable) emotions. Steve Garrigan said it took his soul and wiped it clean. Rumi exquisitely put it as a crowd of sorrows, violently sweeping your house empty of its furniture. They were true.

She had zero appetite for weeks, and food tasted bland when she ate. Although sunflowers and bouvardias bloomed during the day, she broke down the second she arrived home at night. She pushed herself to go out for an entire week only to find herself mentally and physically drained in the end. When she hit the sack, the viable option was either sleeping too late or waking up too early.

The scariest thing was that she never knew when all these would dissipate. The journey was unapologetically unpredictable, just like the fire she was staring at. It blazed and flickered every now and then in an erratic way.

I couldn't care less about the title

You slowly open your eyes. So much dazzle and vitality in the world around. Gardenias bloom. Planes take off. Thousands of cakes are bought to celebrate life today. All flies ever so swiftly that you are sure you must be missing something when you blink.

Life feels like a long drive to the sea. Up and down the mountains, through the tunnels, past the intersections. The music is good when you nod your head to the rhythm, but sometimes it sounds like a total crap that you just turn off the stereo. Funny and a bit ironic that it is in fact your own playlist, which you curate ever so carefully.

And sometimes you find yourself asking, to which sea are you heading again exactly?

How long have you been driving?

Isn't it about time you arrive?

Why haven't you arrived?

When you don't feel like turning on the stereo again, you know you are screwed.

The Enigmatic Summer Read

Spring officially ended last month and it finally felt like summer. The reverberating sound of cicadas was everywhere in the air, as it got sultrier with each passing day. There had never been a daytime when the sun did not shine brightly in this radiant season. She kept on walking while looking down at the road, adjusting her hat every once in a while to cover her face from the direct sunlight.

She was done with her chores when she decided to take a late afternoon stroll. The countryside was always nice at this hour. People usually took a break in between work before wrapping up whatever the tasks they did for they day, so it gave a relaxing siesta time atmosphere.

"Going for another solitary time out, eh?" a familiar voice called her from behind. She turned her head to find an old man on a horse-drawn wagon, steadily approaching her, with a bunch of haystacks on his back seat. "You're still reading that one book from the last time?"

She stopped on her track to allow the wheeled cart to catch up.

"I guess so," she answered, playfully swinging around the book in her hand. "Where are you heading to?"

"Home."

"Good work today."

She politely refused the offer to hop on his carriage. The old man then bid his farewell as he passed by.

A gentle breeze rustled the dry leaves and swayed her skirt. As she continued walking, she could see children raced through the meadow from between the trees that were lined up on each side of the road, running wildly while shrieking with laughter. Looked like a lot of fun. I wonder where they get all that energy from. 


She sat down at her usual spot a couple of minutes later, under a tree overlooking a poppy field. Her shoulder loosened up as she leaned her back against the tree trunk. Without further ado, she opened the book that she had been carrying, and started picking up where she left off.

Unleashing Inner Super Saiyan

"Why the long face?"

She did not answer. Even an idiot could notice that there was something wrong with her, as her feeling was etched on her face. She threw herself on the couch right next to me and took a deep breath. Her empty gaze was fixed on some point in the air. Few seconds had passed before she finally broke the silence.

"I am so mad my stomach hurts."

Then she spent the next ten minutes getting some aggression out. She was furious. I knew that she was a stoic person; she rarely complained about anything, and she said sorry for things that were not even her fault. What I witnessed that afternoon while chilling on some random sofa was a truly peculiar view. She was fuming over someone's imperious attitude, inconsiderate bid, and petty crap. She just blabbered everything out. And there were a lot of curses--"that bitch" being one of them.

I sat and listened. This girl next to me despised someone so much that her hatred and wrath seemingly seeped through her veins, creating various psychosomatic byproduct symptoms. As much as I wanted to be someone comforting, watching this enraged version of her was fascinating in an oddly unique way.

She mentioned something about a root cause. 

"You don't respect this person." I pointed out the key takeaway, making sure that I was on the same page as her. "What needs to be done, then?"

"Nothing. At least on my side." she answered without hesitation. From the way she spoke, she did make herself crystal clear. Even with all the wisdom and understanding surrounding her--about integrity, beliefs, truth, ethic, and relativity--she would stand like a rock in regards to the absolute statement that followed. "For respect is earned."

Whatever this bitch had done in the past,

I thought it must be quite a remarkable achievement.

Your Code to Decipher

"Have I told you how much I love stations and airports; trains and aircrafts?"

It was a comfortably gloomy day as the sun took a day off. Dark clouds kept pouring down droplets of water since dawn, taking everyone hostage at home and leaving the asphalt covered streets empty. However, she was a free soul. She went out nonetheless.

The man who sat in front of her shook his head. "No, you haven't. Tell me."

"I love them so much."

"Why?"

"Because they give me mixed feelings," she answered. "There are sadness and joy. People who come and go. I imagine myself feeling excited to board my plane to see the other side of the continent while also feeling sad because I have to leave everyone I care about behind."

He smiled.

“It’s interesting. I have a friend who hates airports. And I have another who loves it for a slightly different reason from yours.”

“How come?”

“Both only see one side of a single coin. One hates it simply because he only sees the partings. Another one loves it because she only sees the exhilarating anticipation of going places.”

He ended his story by gulping a spoonful of salad and washing it down his throat with mineral water. She observed him in silence.

“People view things differently. And that’s okay,” he continued. “But in order to be wise, it’s always better to understand various, different perspectives. It’s easier being said than done.”

She slowly stirred her tea, making clattering sound as her spoon touched the inner side of her porcelain cup. It was his turn to take his time and observe her mundane gesture. Every time she’s lost in her thoughts, all he can do is wait. And he does not mind waiting.

Blest be the Moonlight

Everyone had already left when I heard him play.

The poignant tune of the piano caught my attention. My heart skipped a beat the moment I recognized the song.

He sat tall on the bench as his slender fingers gracefully danced across the piano bars. He was as calm as the placid Greenland fields; as peaceful as the serene Himalayan mountains. He was so immersed in his own little world that he did not seem to realize my presence.

The haunting melody echoed all over the room, its feelings were perfectly conveyed. He played the song just right.

I was helplessly drawn to him.

In the Honor of the Snatcher

"I see you took an immediate liking to him."

"To whom?"

"To him. The guy you came across at the exhibition last month."

"What makes you say that?"

"How many times have you opened his page since your encounter that day?"

"I open his page every once in a while."

"That didn't answer my question. And by once in a while, you mean once every two or three days, so it makes you have opened his page like.. 10 to 15 times already."

She laughed. A faint blush was slowly become visible on her cheeks. I couldn't help but smirk.

She Wished For No Dream

It was already late, yet she found herself unable to sleep. She then started to do her one-more-scroll routine while listening to her lullaby playlist, hoping that it would tire her and hasten her drowsiness.

After such a long time, she opened his webpage again. She used to catch up with his life through that very page. His writings were intriguing; sometimes they were light and funny, sometimes they were deep. They never failed to make her wanting to know more about him.

He was superior over her in ways she could never imagine.

She adored him. He never knew.

She never wanted him to find out the fact.