There she was, in a RM68 worth of a hotel room, National Geographic showing (but not really appreciated) a crocodile / snake feature following one about archeologists digging up bodies of people long dead, murdered, beheaded and buried in the swamps.
And she felt the utmost urge to write. Right after she upchucked a sour mouthful of bile-flavored instant coffee (courtesy of the Green Park Hotel, thankyouverymuch, it tasted pretty fine while going in but not so coming out).
Why was she running away? What from? Or who?
Hardly the questions of the century, but back when she was a sunny squirt of thirteen and found for the first time a journal entry of her protected, contained life is worthy for at least one appreciative audience - her English teacher - then she wrote:
"To a person with a bee sting on her little finger, that pain may be far more real and greater to her than all the hunger and misery in the world"
(to which the teacher replied, "That certainly is true", and corrected her grammar mistakes)
and so, with all the important unanswered riddles that humankind were striving and struggling and poured many a millions to find the answers to, those three questions bore the biggest weight at that particular moment.
In time.
She muddled herself, pondering the possibilities, putting the consequences, good and bad side by side, like little girls with pigtails running hand-in-hand on a balmy day at the park, having just declared on freshly-spit palms to be best friends forever and ever, fingers intertwined that it's hard to distinguish where one ends and the other starts.
She found it hard to believe her own judgement, not anymore, not after the last time. Common sense seemed to had taken an indefinite holiday from her mind and rang only once in a while to let her know that everybody else is just the way it should be, except herself.
She could never understand the exception. Believe in it, she did, accepted it, but never could she successfully try to fathom even faintly how and why was that to be her destiny.
So she waited a little more. Then the urge could be apprehended no longer, she rinsed the bile/coffee taste out of her mouth.
And she began writing again, lining the alphabets neatly as she could, one after another on the stationery with shaky hands and cold fingers.
And she felt the utmost urge to write. Right after she upchucked a sour mouthful of bile-flavored instant coffee (courtesy of the Green Park Hotel, thankyouverymuch, it tasted pretty fine while going in but not so coming out).
Why was she running away? What from? Or who?
Hardly the questions of the century, but back when she was a sunny squirt of thirteen and found for the first time a journal entry of her protected, contained life is worthy for at least one appreciative audience - her English teacher - then she wrote:
"To a person with a bee sting on her little finger, that pain may be far more real and greater to her than all the hunger and misery in the world"
(to which the teacher replied, "That certainly is true", and corrected her grammar mistakes)
and so, with all the important unanswered riddles that humankind were striving and struggling and poured many a millions to find the answers to, those three questions bore the biggest weight at that particular moment.
In time.
She muddled herself, pondering the possibilities, putting the consequences, good and bad side by side, like little girls with pigtails running hand-in-hand on a balmy day at the park, having just declared on freshly-spit palms to be best friends forever and ever, fingers intertwined that it's hard to distinguish where one ends and the other starts.
She found it hard to believe her own judgement, not anymore, not after the last time. Common sense seemed to had taken an indefinite holiday from her mind and rang only once in a while to let her know that everybody else is just the way it should be, except herself.
She could never understand the exception. Believe in it, she did, accepted it, but never could she successfully try to fathom even faintly how and why was that to be her destiny.
So she waited a little more. Then the urge could be apprehended no longer, she rinsed the bile/coffee taste out of her mouth.
And she began writing again, lining the alphabets neatly as she could, one after another on the stationery with shaky hands and cold fingers.
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