I’m reading a book about love and hopelessness and I am crying. I am crying because it is making me happy that I am feeling something inside me for the whole of today. I didn’t know what it was that shook me today, but I have been in pieces the entire day, shook like a birthday present that a child would shake to check what’s inside before unwrapping it. I crossed the street in the morning but I didn’t remember why I was crossing the street until I got to the other side. I plucked out pastries from a posh self service bakery in Colombo 7 with my fingers before the store staff handed me a food picker and I apologised profusely, for forgetting to do it the right way. I came home from work “sick”, wanting to sleep but it’s past 11 pm and I still can’t sleep. It’s one of those days. I’m here and no where at the same time. I feel empty and full all at once, and I’m hungry like I need to keep myself occupied, and the easiest and the only thing I’m good at is eating.
Sometimes when you’re lost and worried, you only have to write it down in point form, what it is that is worrying you. A friend told me that. She said people worry too much about the thoughts inside their heads, that if they were to put it in writing on a hard tangible piece of paper, that they would make heads and tails out of the mess. She is right. You’d find your needle of a thought, in the haystack of your head if only you’d jot it down.
I’ve been lost before, and I’ve found my way back by following the pointers that I’ve kept at my wake, breadcrumbs that have supported me throughout. A friend, a counsel, a someone to remind me that everything will be okay. Someone to mull things over during a rush hour ride to work when we talk about life’s seriousness and irony in the same sentence. Someone to poke me at office and tell me the truth as it is, the truth I’ve been hiding from myself for sometime hoping that if I’d brushed it under the carpet, it would not exist. Someone who glances at me once, to know that something is wrong without really asking but just by looking at my face, who’ll hug me and say that I’m pretty even when I know that I look the worst I’ve been in some time.
I didn’t realise it at first, but it’s these pointers that keep me in place, like a compass pointing north. The thought that I will lose my pointers, my stability, the man I love and the woman I need to become are all the fears I have to let go. I didn’t realise it at first, but the tattoo I have on my back, the one I thought was the symbol of my lack of direction,the one drawn by the boy I thought I loved long ago, the very same tattoo that is kissed and cradled by the man who’s love pinpricks my existence like an artist’s needle that imprints its ink deep under my skin, is the same metaphoric compass that guides me towards the people that help me find my way.