Everytime I close my eyes, Sunday afternoon comes to mind. Sometimes when I close my eyes, there is only white noises. The Sunday in my head is always sunny; rarely it rains. When it rains on Sunday, I am reminded of school uniform; sweaty and sticky, but it is still Sunday. Everytime I close my eyes, I can smell Sunday. The smell of Sunday in my head— consists of jasmine, pandan, and milk. The Sunday in my head rarely rains. When it rains, it smells like **** and soil. The sunny side of my Sunday is not always bright— and my wet Sunday is not always gloomy. Everytime I close my eyes, I see myself tracing Sunday. I run my fingers through the odds of— possibilities and the ambience of the present. You see, I cannot imagine anyone but myself— in my Sunday. Everytime I close my eyes, I see no one. Everytime I close my eyes, I see silhoutte of myself. Everytime I close my eyes, I see myself leaving trails. Everytime I close my eyes, It was all in my head all along. Blessed with the odds, my Sunday goes by very slowly; so slow sometimes I caught myself in turbulence. From violent shower to the still lake, I avoid meeting myself on the foreground. If I ever crossed path in the middle, I would be non-existent; none of this would matter, and there will never be my Sunday.
Sarah Radzi In Between Four Walls, 19.08.2018, 01:56