Hey, i love my handphone okay.
My parents have suanned me so much about my stolen handphone that I have decided to take up on my dear father's happy request for me to write a five hundred word essay on the loss of my handphone. Yes. (this is going to possibly sound funny or ridiculous because it is, after all, a handphone.)
Prepare yourself for emoness over a handphone! (i just did word count - it's 800 words thereabouts HAHA)
Absence.Inexplicable loneliness. Without concrete presences I have taken to the weight of my handphone to accompany me through nights which are too silent, too unbearable, enclosed enclosure of entangled emotions. Without the light of my handphone what do I do?
It’s more than a tool, now. Always has been. From the wanting to the getting, from the getting to the using, from the using to the needing. The extension of myself, an extra organ combining all five senses. An object, almost spiritual – if people take comfort in God I take comfort in the power to contact; if people believe in a hypothetical being I believe in the realness of other people.
When he took it it was just monetary value to him.
When I got it it was euphoria.
It’s easy to fall in love when you’re feeling vulnerable and you lower your defences for someone to invade and take over and your membrane closes over him as well. It’s easy to fall in love when you’re lying on your bed in the silence of the night wishing and wanting and he lets you know he’s there with a message. It’s easy to fall in love when you’re surrounded by emotionless equations and undone worksheets and he accompanies you through the unendurable workload.
It’s not as easy to fall out of love.
Fall, they call it, a drop through bottomless air. You don’t climb to love, you don’t run into love, you fall in love. The pull of a force higher than gravity. With gravity you have planes. With love, you have?
If I fall in and out of love my handphone is the propagator and the witness to the sudden skips and drops of my heart. To expect is to hope. To hope is to want. To not have is to disappoint. The loaded gems of words stored in a folder of an object are to remind. To lose is to hurt.
In the city of increasing distances I have resorted to this to deceive myself that I am not isolated. In the absence of this the distance looms too vast to cover, and I watch with spyglass and telescope at the passing commuters from an MRT train with only myself on board. If I reach out I brush only glass. If I speak only I will hear it. If I shut my eyes I will hear the same thing as if I don’t. Even the whirl of the train wheels seem faraway, unreal; when you’re alone you obsess over your thoughts. When you’re alone your thoughts will drive you mad.
I feel mad, patient warded in for insanity into white walls white bedsheets white glaring lights. White does not calm. White is the reflection of all colours and the overload of all colours will explode your senses. I feel like a human bomb counting down the seconds to go off. In silence each beep is amplified, and sound is relative to distance so the waves will bounce off the walls in greater force and amplitude. Will the pitch increase as well? Is that why the mental hear screams?
To be trapped is to be optionless. I have lost the option to contact.
To say it is merely an object of communication is a mistake. If your waking thought is of it and your last coherent thought before you sleep is of it, if it sleeps under your pillow sometimes because you fell asleep messaging, if you check it every regular interval and it becomes routine, what does that make it?
I desire immensely to run my fingers over the bulges of the pasted decorations and the tightly packed numbers of the number pad. I desire to plod each number with my thumb and press messages with my gaze trained at the teacher all the time. I desire to see the black-against-grey outlines of an envelope on the time-blinking screen. I am tempted and it is the temptation. I am Eve and it is the forbidden fruit denied.
So it is, then, the being of it being passed around by dirty fingers. I ache to think of it violated and harshly dealt with. It is somewhere on this tiny island but I will never see it again. If it had a soul would it think of me? If it gets sold I hope its new owner places it gently in her pocket when she travels and under her pillow when she sleeps. (I wish I could be the tooth fairy and extract it from there, but I’m not.) I hope against hope that somehow it will return to my hands but that is a dying hope of overbrimming optimism.
I won’t die without it. There will merely be an overly gaping gap separating me from the rest of the world.
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far and wee
you and i together mysteriously and always floating
Wednesday, May 2
1:43 AM
