Do we forget where we came from and how far we’ve come?

I used to be too terrible and too shy at speaking. In the world of being an only child, I was the most talkative being of the household. But with the rest of the world, I hated moments where I had to let out a sound, especially when I had to let out one to ask for something. So like all quiet children, I pretended I was sitting in a safe place, observing people and things. And like all quiet children, I had to find an alternative form of expression. 

On my made-belief pedestal, I amused myself. I would see the word ‘giraffe’ and think of the colour cream; and then smell mushroom soup, which reminds me of a speckled granite floor. So “freckles on a frog’s back” I did write in a lined jotter book of displaced letters and phrases. I wrote these things down the way I wish I could make a speech to explain their then very child-sensible relationships.

But at some point, I grew up, learnt to accomodate, learnt to fit in, and inevitably learnt to speak to strangers. 

So, being able to speak became such a vibrant experience that lines and squiggles became second best. 

And that’s the way the cookie crumbles.

When I spoke, I’d stopped imagining.

Such days where I’m too fat to eat, too poor to spend and too tired for nightlife — books, movies and the IKEA catalog have become my only escape.