I’ve always thought of bubble baths as a metaphor for sauntering around, to have the short time in betweens for day dreaming. The bubbles dispersing into the air, the smell of shampoo, but more importantly, the time at hand. These bubble bath moments include anything from saving the world as the next Wonder Woman to being strangely excited about buying a nonexistent pair of shoes.
The older I get, I find myself scrambling for these bubble baths, overwhelmed by the amount over the plate that is to be done. At times bubble baths mean cutting down on some other priority.
Less of bubble baths mostly means waking up from dreams into reality, the bittersweet realization that day dreaming cannot solve half my problems.
Or maybe, they could?
Second week of writing a snippet on Growing Up. Saturdays are perfect for overthinking, lamenting and having some more hot chocolate or litchi juice.
These lines make me nervous. I love lines otherwise, lines that run through pages, lines that unmask people, lines that make up stories, lines that can be spoken, lines with words on them. But this is a queue. And I’m not fond of lines that are made up of people. It makes me anxious, like I’m doing something wrong.
What is worse is perhaps not the number of people in front, but rather the ones after me. They are not many, I’m almost at the end. It would be over, only when its over. We’re moving at the exact opposite of what might be the speed of light. Why are there so many people here? Why am I here in particular? I don’t seem to find the answers. My only source of entertainment here is to imagine, turn these people into characters. Turn myself into one. Nobody seems to know where this is heading.
There’s a couple in front of me, one offering the other to stand in their place. Rather sweet. But I wonder do they know I’m here right at their back writing about them in words they would probably never recognize or come across.
The sun is generous today, warm and stark. But the wind blows. Faces of confusion everywhere. Why is it that they do not know. What is it that I do not as well. People have stories of letters everywhere. I’ve been standing here for hours now. I’m small and petite so I can slip in between without getting my hands or legs stuck.
After a few hours, the chaos becomes a part of me. I begin to enjoy it in a very odd way. The people become a little familiar. Maybe they are not strangers anymore. After all even families are strangers that decided to stick together for a long period of time. Lovers. Friends. The universe. All of them strangers who decided to stay a little longer.
Perhaps this line too, a preplanned, preconceived act of destiny or of choice. Let’s find out, shall we?