Being Me

Today I sat down and tried to write for work.

And I realised that in the past one or so years,
I have forgotten that before anything else,
I used to write.

I sat under the harsh fluorescent lights
boxed in by office walls
completely uninspired.

I used to think writing was something that came naturally,
not something you had to train yourself to do
but now not writing has become a habit
and it seems to take so much more to do it.

I still write in my mind, fleeting paragraphs
that never make it to paper

this is the kind of realisation that saddens.

And so I left, took the walk I seem to take less
and less these days.

It occurred in phases, first to take the back way
so as to not bump into colleagues returning to the office
after a meeting

then crossing the road...beep..beep..beep of the green light
at the pedestrian crossing
I fall into step with the bristling army marching
on the five foot way
together we brace the traffic, cantankerous on the pitted
tar, shimmering oily steam

and slowly, as I walk, its as though the thousand and one
thoughts swimming in my head, its as though.. they swirl and
float, converge at one point, and slowly, they separate
become clearer

I think of J.K. Rowling inventing the Pensieve
how I want one.

To be able to separate each thought, scrutinise each in turn
to be able to make them, clear, clean, defined.

Now I am at Jalan Alor, bustling, a lady sits on her own
at the plywood table, huge durian in front of her
pile of seeds at her side, she is lost in her own world.

I want to be her.

Steam billows from stoves and giant pots, there the vendor and his
plump bananas, his mangosteens, I always think they look
like asian breasts
here, the woman with her cucur udang
glistening red tiger prawn skins, shucked onto the table
while this couple cleanse their palates with green papaya salad
the roar that delivers 'wok hei' and chatter of people selling
ordering, recommending fills the air.

This, I think is how one is inspired to write..
If I could stop here, sit here, think here, right here

here, I could write you that stunning piece on Peranakan
cuisine, here I can think, I can put those thoughts on paper,
I can be inspired.

The four walls draw nothing but blanks.
Uninspiring work borne out of the uninspired.

My march has slowed to an amble
as my mind runs away with me,
I think of how this walk, used to be my wind down,
my wake up
and
how the smallest break from what is now the norm can inspire

I think of Frank Herbert's quote,
"Without new experiences, something inside us sleeps.
The sleeper must awaken."

How true how true how true

My boss asked me the other day, "What are your plans this year?"
"My plan, is to remain in KL, in Malaysia.."
was what I said. Not "to make manager etc etc."

And anyone who knows me, knows what a feat that will be.
I've been here a year.

When I told D, he said "That's right, baby steps."
so true.

Everyday D and I battle traffic, we do our routine, and as immensely
comfortable as it is, I wander how much 'routine' I can take, how long
I wonder if my quashing this need to soar, see more of the world
live out of my comfort zone, if its healthy?

I wonder about us, he tells me me he worries that I may become
bored, I tell him my worries are the same.

But they aren't really. They are different shades, categories, area codes
of Boredom.

He worries his routine will bore me
I worry, that myself as a woman will bore him
because when 20 people tell you something, it seems quite
foolish to ignore.

But I go into it knowingly, because maybe it's worth it,
and maybe people deserve the benefit of doubt.

And my becoming bored of routine?
As a simple walk has demonstrated, just doing
something that veers ever so slightly from the norm
opens up your mind, inspires things, exposes you to
something that makes you question, makes you smile
maybe even, makes you write.

I just need to shake it up a bit, just a bit.
So my mind doesn't dwell, doesn't stagnate
doesn't rot, wilt, go stale.

Now I reach the stairs.
The old man who makes his bed here, is not here
His bed, thin cardboard box, opened up,
is.

I am glad, last time I walked by he exposed his nuts.

I bound up, then its mossy drain coverings, squirrels
darting in the trees above.
Moss! Don't you love moss? I do.

For that fairytale quality that it lends everything
for softening, prettying the edges of my world
for filling my little world right up, right up, rigggggggggggght uuuuuppppp

Another bout of stairs, four flights, I am home.

Now, I shall swim.

Ramble over.