Press the phone to my ear after dialling a number I memorise by heart—I memorise many numbers by heart, but this one calls for a bit more exclusivity. The dial tone rings, indicating that the number I have called is being rung as I wait. One, two, three, four, click. They have hung up on me.
Receive a text message shortly after, that they’re busy and can’t attend to my call. Oh, okay. It’s just part and parcel of life. Ride with the waves and overcome the vicissitudes of life, I can do that.
But what is this thing eating away at me?
Even though I know I’m going to be hung up on again, I dial the same number again. I’m so familiar with this number that my fingers glide across the dial pad without hesitation because it has long become muscle memory. I count the dial tone mindlessly because it’s in my habit to do that, just like how I have a habit to count my footsteps while running a long distance run. One, two, three, click.
I almost want to give up, then again I had no expectations of being answered the second time I called. My emotions are tied up in knots and waves of frustration and desperation rush through my body and mind. I know I am wrong, and I know I am better than this, but right now my mentality has stooped to an all time low and it is difficult—very difficult, to keep myself in check.
Maybe I need professional emotional help. Maybe the first step to self-healing is to acknowledge your weaknesses. Many people in the working industry depend on the weaknesses of others for a livelihood. In this world, we complement one another by covering each other’s inadequacies in exchange for a wage or salary.
Over the past two days I have dialled this number many times, like as though the act of dialling this very number in itself is a therapy regardless if the call actually follows through. I count the dial tones, and wonder what my potential interlocutor is doing on every dial. Sometimes, the call never gets picked up, or an automated voicemail message cuts me off.
Just like life, I never know what follows through next even if I do the same actions. Just like life, not every fall is salvageable. And similarly, not everything said is final.
I send my prayers into the distant sky up and hope for them to land upon your shoulders, wherever you are. I send my love even though I am sad, desperate, or hurt, up into the night sky and hope that somewhere, sometime, you can feel it.
Imperfect, sinful, inconspicuous as I am, my anger and hurt fades into a wisp together with my prayers as I send all of them up into the sky, where an immortal being will cure the anger and pain, while transferring my prayers to you.
And then, perhaps you will pick up my call.
; 