Feels like a Fool

When others laughed at you and you, like a fool, twitched to bear a grin and act as though you have enough sense of humour to laugh at yourself too, deep inside, you know; it was not funny. Every jibe, every smirk, every tilt on every corner of every mouth were like daggers driven at your self-esteem. And so you bleed, still smiling, desperately clinging to your dignity, hoping that if you died, you'd be a martyr . The truth, however, does not seemed real. You did not bleed, you would not die. Aye they mocked and laughed, sometimes louder than how you could remember. You lived on, like a fool. But you know, you are not one. Sometimes you just feel like one. It's alright.

Air Papan

The whole stretch of beach was deserted. The sands were without footprints and the waves, angry white sprays lashed on the sugary white beach. The horizon blurred by the blue waters and the blue cloudless sky. A vessel seemed floating between water and sky. Yonder, tiny green islands afloat like flecks of faraway green clouds. It could be Dali's masterpiece, but this is Air Papan a popular public beach off Mersing.

I stood by the beach and the waves beckoned. I submit to the call and dived into the rolling thunderous waves. Nothing seemed existed or maybe my existence was nothing.

That was a month ago.

Today I passed by the town. I remember Air Papan. I remember you and the coffee I drank in your office.

Bila Dina Tersenyum

Dina tersenyum melihat bayangnya di cermin. Bayangnya menangis melihat senyuman Dina. Ingin sahaja imej itu berkata "kau perempuan gila". Dina tersenyum meleret; dalam dan keruh maksud senyumanya. Lebat airmata bayangnya melihat lerekan senyum itu, makin kuat rontaan perkataan yang terkongkong dalam kotak fikirnya. Dina jangan! Sayang, suara bisu itu hanya untuk hati kaku. Senyuman yang terukir itu kekal di wajah Dina.

Di meja kecil Dina sebotol pil tidur berserakan. Darah menitis dari hujung pisau lipat yang tergenggam di tangan kiri Dina manakala jemari tangan kanannya adalah delta merah melimpah dari lurah dalam di pergelangan tangannya. Kepalanya terlentuk di bahu sofa dan Bayangnya di cermin retak seribu.

apa yang?

apa yang sedih sangat ni? ntahla
apa yang sayu sangat ni? ntahla
apa yang toye sangat ni? ntahla.

Mungkin kerana tiba-tiba segalanya jelas dan tiada apa yang boleh dilakukan untuk bertirai lagi.

A Book, Returned

She received a brown envelope this morning. She stared at the unfamiliar handwriting. God, she thought, who could it be from? It has her name, spelt correctly, but without her father's, so it can't be from a formal acquaintance, yet it does not address the company she worked with. Lucky thing that the package arrived safely, she thought. If it was from anyone she knew why was the handwriting so unfamiliar? She ripped the flap and there it was, Dorothea Brande's Becoming A Writer staring straight at her. A book she referred and revered whenever she could not write a line on a page. It was hard to describe the joy that washed over her.

A little note was folded on the title page like a book mark (with a heading that reads: going beyond expectations). Then she realised that she had seen the handwriting before. Getting that package, even when the book is actually hers, felt like getting a gift.