A disintegration.

Manusia yang daif, manusia yang akur.
Kerana tanpa aturan manusia gentar, sayu, kekok.

Amidst a profusion of tender feelings inspired by the dusky body of the night-time, the individual feels like he can finally give enough to invest in the present being. The relief of having this motion silently passed is a huge and unsurpassable liberation. Lately he has been praying again, often with his eyes closed, imagining the reach of a ship arriving on a distant shore. Lately, he feels he is able to look past the disembodied state of his fears, past the wildfire of alienation, and the decreasing self-confidence of being able to make it in this cut-throat dog-eat-dog world. He understands the frailty of living and the smallness of not just his own life, but the lives of others surrounding him, as he peers outside the window and sees the lighted cars driving on the wet road and pedestrians sharing umbrellas in the chill, like bedouins in the night seeking refuge within the silent shrill of the wet, wet dark. Still falls the rain as accompaniment, the nymphs of his desires threatening to surface past the threshold of his conscious conscience.

Perhaps death is a famous passenger ship which greets us at the most inopportune moments as it reminds us, startlingly, of brief mortality and of how what we have is not really ours to always keep. For awhile, he did not care anymore about the keeping. If it was his, some higher Being’s, anyone’s, no one’s. He wanted, simply, the quiet comfort of having the days pass by – obligations, paid; needs, met. And if the end came then, well, to hell, kiddo.

The news of his friend’s abrupt passing came as a shock. It wasn’t a friend he had particularly kept in touch with in recent years. But he was a decent guy, good-spirited enough to stick around under any occasion and always well-received for the strong sense of easiness he emanated. A bit of a joker with a sharp tongue, a bit of an asshole sometimes, but always well-liked.

He thinks of the idea of perishing in an accident and it is to him so rude and alien. The disembodiment of a form once known, gone to blend within the asphalt, form gone to further distances past mortal comprehension.

Perhaps tomorrow, a week, or even a month later he will choose again to forget the bruising urgency of this moment. Perhaps he will choose to be invulnerable again. The panic will dwindle and time will cease to feel like thin fabric. He will shelve the books back after they move him, flee again to other towns for something bigger and better, refuse the promise of commitment at the brink of intimacy with gratifying and vile bodies, forget the serenity of this sudden humility now filling him. Indifference may arrive, with the hours and the days and the growing years.

“Think of something poetic before this moment passes,” he thinks, before reaching out for pen and paper.


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