Close to the bottom

It was in mid-November that the message first came on her phone's Whatsapp. "Nar, what if you come with me?"

Despite knowing the context vaguely, for a split second, Nara thought it was just some kind of joke. "Come? As in, come to have a lunch with you?" She added a smiley icon just to make it seemingly more lighthearted. You know, in case the recipient didn't get that she's joking. Of course she's joking.

"No. As in, you're coming to work with me." The sender was Sarah, Nara's former boss in her current office. It's only been 4 months since Sarah's departure—a sort of heartbreaking, sort of ecstatic farewell that ended up with Nara vomited in the office's restroom at 3 in the morning because of the booze. And yet, a woman like Sarah asking Nara to join her? Nara couldn't believe it. Not that she's not capable of doing that, she can—although deep down she has this big pile of self-doubt ready to creep in anytime; she didn't think of it as something serious.

Nara replied, 'Nah... I think I'm not ready yet to do that.'

But in mere seconds the reply got in, 'Then I think..." The next chat arrived. "...we should meet first.'

Seven days after the messages, the two women (which one of them thinks she has yet to learn how to function as a woman) met on a breezy night in an intimate, quiet coffee shop in Melawai (when both of them aren't even a coffee drinker).

***

Nara is a junior in an industry that enjoys telling a captivating story, as much as selling it. Her interest in this industry has brought her to many places since her college, so it wasn't a surprise when she got hired in one place that celebrates young blood like her. There, she met Sarah.

(to be continued)

Nowhere in sight

"I don't get it. He has the whole galaxy resting on his palm, yet he's still searching into the vast sea of stars... looking for what? Debris and nothingness?"

But still, just to think that God himself is slightly interested in her, at least with her Tinder profile, makes her heart bloom; although she knows for sure that in his universe, she is the scrap. And just like any insignificant fragment, she longs for God to finally put attention to the detail that he made: her heart.

So she types the first 'hi', but what are the chances of him texting her back? The almighty has bigger things to be taken care of, she believes—like the melodious rhythm on his fingertips; the flowing commandments from his mouth; the galaxy, a she, that constantly creates a new life in his hand—but nothing like replying her simple message, she reckons, is in his agenda.

* * *

Just as she expected, days go by without a single answer. Sometimes, she wants to be an atheist, because the concept of disbelieving his existence is easier than committing herself to an unanswered prayer that, to her (who's never a religious devotee), equals to slow suicide.

Nevertheless, who knows that feeling head over heels with God can be so natural to her?

* * *

It takes less than 30 seconds to make her heart thuds like a beating drum, and more than 2 hours to make it back to its normal rhythm. All because that day when God texts back with a simple 'hi' arrives.

She tries hard not to sound too eager on her response. 'So... what kind of band are you in?' would suffice, she believes—as a conversation starter, and also, as a sign that she pays attention to the last two photos he posted. God and other celestial beings, she would murmur at the night she bumped onto his profile, looking at how youthful the band is. The night that ended with bewilderment and made her late to the class the next morning, with streams of existential questions occupying her head.

(to be continued)

Writer's note

One day, out of nowhere, a so-called Shunji Iwai fan, aka me, decided to make a new blog after listening to the following song:

The idea of collecting any writing—basically my take on life's mundanity—other than daily babbles in one place amused me, and that became the basis for this blog. I've always wanted to write in a form of writing that I feel unfamiliar with, such as personal essay, poem, and even collaboration project like many of young writers my age have been doing out there—acting like an editor for their own private, digital publication. So, as a part of my new year's resolution: to write more—I chose to follow the same path.

I was determined to name this blog "Fish in the pool" at first, as a tribute to the movie; but then I noticed that doing so would make this blog less personal than I intended to be. I, then, rather unconsciously, wrote "Words written on the page" as the title—and a few seconds later, another part of me managed to exist in this online world.

Now that you know a bit of me and the story behind this blog, I'm more than pleased to see you arrived safely to this tiny sanctuary. Enjoy your stay here, darlene.