the meticuolus man with floral pants

Dear jess,

I’m here looking at this man pouring ribena into individual ant sized cups, carefully, as if every drop was gold, leaning away from me I could see his beach wear floral pants. There was something adorable about a man after a certain age who uses floral pants and lives in the thicken pahang jungles.

I rarely have my out of body moments these days, and I had one then. The breeze blew at the OA church we painted, now with an extra few feet extension, I could see the nature free outside, and I took solace that there was beauty in being contented without having to live in the city.

A lot of defeat as I rethought this trip. Plenty. Didn’t achieve what I thought I could with the singing and the lovely kids, and thoroughly hated myself for something else. Regardless. When I was in my first year at uni, I went to this same areas of pahang, on a bus to temerloh, met the same person whose been doing the same work he has from before then. That’s how long. Not my experience; just me.

I always pride myself, these days at least, for being someone who dares to speak up and be different. Someone who won’t stop at saying or doing just because it’s unorthodox. And then a thought occurred. Maybe what I strive to be might be a continuity of oppositions. No matter what, as long as it isn’t what you are thinking, a fight, just for the sake of it.

The question of who I am continuously interests and annoys me at the same time. It’s a rare, flattering skill to see everything good in everybody and mine is a cynical one that sees everything bad in everyone. And as I look at the breeze outside the wooden church and wonder how few people will attend my funeral because I told them the truth that they suck compared to the funeral of the girl with plenty people because she told them all they were great, I smile. At the man with the flowery pants, and a much simpler, simpler life, except perhaps when he’s pouring the ribena.

yours,

jess