Indelible truths

I was pleasantly surprised after I typed her name on Google Search. All it took were two clicks and I got what I was looking for.

Now, I know how the love of her life looks like, how she had a crush on some other colleague and the bucket list of his qualities that attracted her. It’s funny how she wrote about her crush at length while I already dedicated at least two posts about her. And it’s funny how we might not be worth a footnote in someone else’s life.

In some ways, she was the girlfriend I never had, but given the wretched state of my life now, I doubt even if all other males disappeared from this wee island, she would want to lower her expectations down to my level.

Whatever it is, she has left a mark in my life. I wish her well (since the prospect always remains that we’ll never cross each other’s path again).

***

We’re His children. I’m His child. That’s the truth, indelibly.

Assuming that I choose to ignore (for a moment) how emotionally and mentally screwed up of a wretched man that I have become. I focus on my left hand now, specifically the wrist. I see little angry red spots.

So, if I am not already screwed up bad in the mind and my emotions (some people catergorise this as “negative” energy), I have to contend with the physical manifestations of my screwed-up-ness.

Am I still His child? Or, does He still see me as His child?

The Heavens, as always, will remain silent.

Angels don’t exist.

They don’t anymore. Not in my world. Not when those red spots on my hand peer innocently back at me. They remind me about how it would be immensely difficult for someone out there to accept one of the many physical limitations that inhabit my body. Sometimes, the reminders grow to become voices. They growl loudly within my senses.

“I’m not worthy. You’re not worthy.”

In my hour of need, there is none to call on. Everyone has their negative bits to deal with.

His child… His loving arms…

It’s no longer about whether or not I believe. Not when I oscillate between trying to pick myself up (and falling again) and thinking about how much I disregard my life.

Where do I begin to look for that respect for self?

I know it’s the truth. Like I’m Someone else’s child. Like how Someone had to pay a price to redeem me.

But the need for faith feels like abandonment.

I’ve always felt abandoned.

I remember a message I received about a year ago. It was an invitation from someone who wanted to reach out to me. But I didn’t quite accept it there and then for various reasons.

A year later, it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how the invitation was for the “there and then”.

I don’t believe it was flippant. I believe it came out of genuine, good intentions.

But maybe, that someone saw those angry red spots, or that I as a person didn’t fit into that someone’s impression of me before we met.

You see, another indelible truth was how I would never be abandoned as His child.

But who could explain this pervading issue I have with being abandoned?

No one could and I stopped asking.

So, for every piece of advice that came my way about how I could only help myself or no one else could help me, I could see those little angry red spots mocking at me. They amplify with every rejected call for help (subtly or otherwise).

I know I’m His child. But can I declare now that I don’t quite like my life? Can I tell Him how much I want to start over or how much I want for Him to wave His hand and make those little angry red spots disappear once and for all?

I know for a fact that I don’t suffer from a debilitating disease. I have learnt how to conceal those little angry red spots from prying eyes. But I won’t be able to conceal from myself how they would continue to cripple me socially, mentally and emotionally.

That I have become less of a man, not worthy to be accepted and loved, because they will stay there for the rest of my life.

We’re His children. I’m His child. But until a miracle happens, I’ll have to live with that truth, indelibly

“Can you afford to buy a Prada bag?”

He observed her a long time ago. Perhaps it was when she was introduced to him. Petite and slim, she could be at least five years his junior.

Their interactions were kept to a bare minimum. Lunches were now sporadic since he had fallen out with one of his other co-workers. Even then, there were precious little he could do or say except for the usual mundane conversations about the latest celebrity gossip or bits of information of the “people upstairs” (and then, there were some who were particularly lecherous).

He remembered the look on their faces (including hers) when he uncharacteristically blurted out “so what plans do you both have tonight?” during lunch on Valentine’s Day. The memory of that stray strand of udon swinging from her mouth was something he could not remove from his mind.

Cute.

He would pass her a particular magazine (that came with the national rag) on Fridays as it was her favourite reading material. With a smile, of course. She would sprightly say “thank you”. And that was it.

Or that he would buy Gong Cha for her whenever he had a chance to, but reined in the frequency of the treat later to avoid throwing up mental images in the minds of other co-workers or breeding the green-eyed monster amongst them. In response, she would go “Oh wow! Thanks!” and that was it.

These days, he would admire her from afar (figuratively speaking, because her work cell was just opposite his). There were some indications that her heart is with someone else.

This morning, gasping for breath from the briskest of walks to work and having to navigate through the peak hour crowd, he stepped into the lift lobby. Most of the time, he would avoid the blank looks on the faces of those who, like him, were facing the prospect of another long, boring and arduous work day. He was checking the panels to see which lift he could take when he felt someone poking on his shoulder.

It was her. With that unmistakable big, sprightly and slightly impish smile. It sent his mind into a frenzy as multitudes of bright, yellow sunflowers filled it.

He smiled, took off the earphones and muttered, “hello.” Mornings, to him, were never good.

She returned the greeting and before he could say any word in response, the lift doors opened. They shuffled into the lift. And then, the 30 seconds of silence filled the space.

He hadn’t the privilege of opening the door to their office for her. Someone else was doing that already. Then, off they slipped quietly into their work cells. And that was it.

But he realised later that there were other aspects of her he had noticed.

Like how she was carrying this bright green hand bag yesterday and today, the words “Prada” stood out from the slightly shiny black bag she brought to work today. It sat (somehow) inconspicuously on the row of cabinet drawers in her work cell.

He knew what his emotions and thoughts were telling him. He could acknowledge them, but never he will give them their satiation.

***

All characters appearing in this work are possibly fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, could be purely coincidental.