I put my head right in front of the blue light of the desktop screen,
my eyes set on various pages, one where the work is done, one where
the world makes friendship with perfect human beings, one where I secretly note
down grocery list and things that I have to finish before it’s too late.
The real windows of the room open to a green garden, a few hummingbirds chase
each other without knowing the world’s favorite words: stress, and to-do list;
for the life of eternity, they just have to be hummingbirds, beautiful
and carefree. I have been thinking: this is why we should be here. To look beautiful,
and untroubled. To call ourselves carefree, like we all are gifted that way.
On my way back home, I stop my car when a group of happy ducklings cross
the road. Their proud mother looks back and gazes at my mirror where
the shiny evening sun watches its reflection once a day. As if it’s a routine.
Sometimes when I do too many things, please people, nurture words like kindness,
caution, family, I wonder if this is why we are here. To tag along with that routine,
and imitate someone else’s biography. To pay back for everything unwanted given
to us. I think it again, and again while sipping the evening tea, and touching old
photographs from the family album. What I often miss. The genuine love.
A letter. A kiss on the forehead right before the most difficult question-answer
round where all my answers will be judged. A salty simple curry when my sore throat
cannot swallow over-dried humors. I want some more, some more of those things.
Like the person who always wants numerous little things to make life a museum.
Maybe this is why we are here. To fulfill those secret wishes that no one has to notice.
To chase them like hummingbirds. And call them yearnings. We are collecting, striding,
looking back with our discontented eyes. We belong because of those longings.