peeling oranges on my own.

before getting on the school bus, we are offered two items of food every day. i usually, do not care much for the pre-ride food, because it is usually something of little to no interest to me.

the other day, she handed me an orange
she said, there was a certain method of picking the oranges.
i laughed in response.
does it really matter, i asked.
she nodded, and proceeded to rummage through the basket - much to the the annoyance of the vendor.
having found one, she handed it to me.
when i asked her if she needed one, she refused.
acts of service.

when i got up on the bus that day, i had no intention of eating the orange.
not because i don't like oranges, mind you.
it was because, i didn't think i was the kind of person to eat oranges on the way home.
i hadn't done that, ever.
i hadn't peeled my own orange.
ma did it. didun did it. someone with a forgettable name did it.
i never did it.

huh. 
i made my way to the stumpy top of the orange and tried to pick out the peel (i had nails back then). after a number of tries, i managed to scrape out the first peel to reveal a slice of orange pulp. the white strings mapped across the slice like veins. i scooped it out and put it in my mouth. i peeled an orange on my own :) 
for the first time, oranges tasted different.
the orange stone rolled on my tongue while i figured out how to maneuver the fruit without making a mess. 
soon, an orange peel shell lay on my lap, with the orange stones neatly placed in the center. 

my heart glowed with this peculiar miniature accomplishment.
i never thanked her for the orange.
the good orange.

-

recently, i have started introspecting more. i figured, why would i not be able to talk to myself the way i talk to other people ? 
with an air for experiment, i decided to note down behavior like i would note down others'.
a, hyperfixation.
b, lack of coherence in social behavior
c, antagonistic savior complex
d, covert reactive attachment.

on the walk home, i talked. this is how the conversation went :

h: why can't i be like this with them ?
0: like what ?
h: the way i am with you.
0: this isn't you being 'like this' heeya. this is a sort of depersonalization . you are segregating yourself to speak to me.
h: why do you always speak like you know everything ?
0: i don't. i observe and assume. usually i am right. 
h: a lot of people observe and assume. i don't question them. they aren't right. i know how it feels. doesn't feel the same when you speak.
0: that could be because of two reasons. a, it comes from a certain god complex that your ego feeds- and you give me that pedestal of importance. b, i have known you your whole life. they see a section.
h: hm.
0: you seem dissatisfied.
h: i seem abnormal. not dissatisfied. i can't understand this. 
0: why do you feel the need to understand everything ? 
h: it gives me closure. makes up for a lot of things. helps me adjust. 
0: looking for closure in all the wrong places, heeya. 
h : i am getting bored of you. when do you leave ?

-

i did not appreciate 0's silence.
_

i hate it when my mother is right.
i hate it when she says things i would do.
makes me seem transparent.
i hate it because she sees through the layers in all the wrong moments.
i hate it when she sees nothing when i need her to.
i hate that convenience.

i hate that the person she made is stronger than the person i moulded.
it is a complex relationship, that competition.
-

the other day i wrote a page of nos.
titled it : all the nos i have not said.
the page did not hold it.
i was disappointed. 
i scolded the diary.
then i scolded myself.

i proceeded to put my ear to my watch.
the sound gives me solace.
ropes me down.
the sound can melt into the blinking of the cursor when i write.
or the hand of the big clock.
or the numbers on the red watch.
the synchronization envelopes one.

a pink sticky note looks at me in pity. 
it reads, you'll float.
-

sometimes i feel like a crime scene in a crop top.
sometimes i feel like i have stolen a life. 
like all the other things i have stolen.
i do not belong here.

sometimes i feel like an orange stone that was buried in the soil.
while the rest were swept into the bin.
the child yet, does not know how to grow the orange tree.
all the good intentions in the world won't hide who you are.

-

i have not been this unsure in a long time.
i have always been
okay.

now,
i am scared.

                                       The Guardian and The Observer - Randy Mora on surrealism.

i put a gun to my head. this adolescence has killed me. 
i have to stop writing eulogies for every new person i meet.