There is a certain comfort in cleaning up your own room. To begin with, I have removed most of the things from the corked board, leaving nothing but the exam schedule, and photos, photos of my child, the siblings as children, of friends you no longer see actively in your life. A pen drive, marking your position as a student, a toothbrush to signify that occasionally you shall sleep from one house to another, a lens cloth to say that you wear classes. Then there are those books. What do they mean, if Al-Attas was lined with Kafka, , Said, Beauvoir, Barthes and Rilke? It means you are in a state of confusion. A crisis of identity.
I try to remain sane despite having to nothing to look forward to but a steps of stones in a pond that I must jump from one to another. It is June. I try to list things that I must cross out evenly, with some sort of false affirmation that everything is going to be alright. But I remain, crumpling myself at my bed after a shower, staring wide eyed to the reflection of the sky at my mirror, denying myself the pleasure of the going outside. My bicycle is left in the rain, battered and ignored. Soon it shall squeak and squeal pathetically at each cycle to the beach.
perkaraperkara 