reconciliation

he made it appear easy as if tossing spaghetti in a bowl; the only difference is that the spaghetti is jet black and that each noodle strand is attached to the bowl which holds a great amount of questions, memories and secrets of my life.

as i gaze upon the glass box before me, i saw how his hands act like a samurai swiftly cutting each tall grass of life’s uncertainty growing from my scalp. the moment i shut my eyes, i felt my head getting lighter with each stroke and cut of the twin blades running back and forth just millimeters above my scalp. each quick slashing sound of the scissors brings a therapeutic relief to my senses. the depression of not having what i think should be the right job for me diminished, the fear of not knowing what lies ahead of me was lessened and the attacks of sporadic loneliness was suddenly stifled. i was then enticed to rest on the comforts of sleep but the nudge on the mole at my head brought me back to my seat where i was still subject to the ceaseless cutting of the hairdresser.

after a number of seconds, it finally dawned to me how he might have missed my instructions: give my hair a make-over ergo, give me a not-too-short but stylish haircut.

i was brought back with my haircut years ago when i had less problems, less uncertainties, and less worries. before panic could reach any of my nerves, he was keen enough to ask my place of work, which shunned away my fear of looking like a sixth grader or a high school cadet.

a short haircut is always a safe cut and is not bad at all. nearly bordering on being a semi-bald, this uber short hairstyle is easy to wear and is light on the head. but that fact that i don’t get what i expected disappointed me a bit. life has already offered me lots of disappointments, and getting another from something that you expect to bring you what you wanted hits harder.

the hairdresser brought me back to my former hairstyle for a reason. maybe he was trying to tell me that managing problems can be like managing your hair. you toss it around, you style it, you manage it, you look at it in different angles, and you cut it straight away if it becomes a burden in your head.

my condolences

she saw it before you did. a year ago she told me her recurring dreams about your miscarriage. it is still vivid to me how she recollected her visions of you being devastated by your loss. we both agreed it could be symbolic. not that we were skeptic about you being pregnant at all, but you know most dreams are symbolic. they provide you only pieces of signs and figures that you have to decipher in order for things to make sense.

we all know you can conceive another art overnight, but your loss is different. you have devoted over ten years of your life to it. you nearly committed social suicide by nurturing and nourishing your art. you sowed fear, induced hatred and shared inspiration to almost every life you have touched. you selflessly shared your passion. you rarely open your gates of trust, but you let us have a look inside you place. i saw the bitterness, the pain and the repressed emotions overflowing from every corner and crevice of your foundations.

i am sorry to hear you crumble like the towers of the world trade center. i am sorry to hear that she, your most trusted friend, might have caused the miscarriage for reasons yet unclear to me. you can do it. you are a strong spirit. you have crashed multitudes of towering ego before you, you have survived the waves of criticism hurled against you and you managed to exist in the island of solitude for years.

thank you for sharing your passion with me. i hope to see you inspiring more people in the future.

i wish you all the best