Lemony Snickers, (Post Raya Monday/Fever), 20/7/2015

When I wake up every morning, my first thought is to quench the thirst of my parched throat. Am I the only one who finds it so demotivating to wake up begging for hydration every day? I slice a lemon in halves and hand-squeeze them into a glass of water to gulp down. It recalibrates my morning awareness about my presence of mind. Handling knives first thing in the day is quite a grown up thing to do ; which I take for granted these days. I am too accustomed to it by now. Too desensitized to consider it a new flower worth smelling. My allergic reaction to pollen prevents me.

Getting back to the lemons, I still have no recipe on choosing seedless ones. Hand-juicing them daily, removing the seeds can be a pain every morning. I have been at this routine for a couple of years now. Finding seedless lemons in the pile ranks way up there for me when starting a day. I try to preserve my wellbeing as best I can especially when running on low blood sugar and pressure.

— -

One can compare people to anything:books, wine, buildings, fixtures, cars, fruits and the list is non exhaustive. For purposes of continuity in context, lemons are officially comparable to people and vice versa.

You bump into them every now and then, like moving sparks through your life. Some slip into your orbit for longer than others and change your orientation. Others just fly by and light up the sky for a while before the darkness overwhelms business as usual. Whatever it is, lemons are like people. People don’t come in good or bad packages. They are either just right for you or not. Figuring this out naturally starts with a self narrative. A self initiating ritual if you will.

. . .

“Old corny adage: when life hands you lemons, make lemon juice.”

It goes beyond just getting handed lemons and figuring out what to do with it. Consider this as Level 2. The overworld pipe leads you to an added grey brick underworld you never knew existed. A world within a world: Make that lemon juice count. Squeeze it, make juice, stir up a vinaigrette, bake a key-lime pie, wash the pipes with it, make jam, use it as a mixer for sweet potato wine, chuck it into someone’s eye. Expand your skill set and innovate. Lemons are more than solely for lemon juice.

— -

I pass this highway to work everyday after my lemon juice routine. At 8.45 after passing the fourth traffic light, I always see this person in an utterly dishevelled outfit sitting down on the road-separating divider. Unmanaged locks plaster her face as she clings to the metal railing with grimy arms in a prayerlike fashion. Her face is never exposed but I can only imagine the stories any written lines on it would speak. Her back is always turned towards the incoming flow of traffic.

Cold realisation washes over me as I turn to glaze her a last time with my eyes. The background of lights and sounds from vehicles and the open streets whizz past my side window. Her overturned soiled ashen-red back shrinks away from me while the car approaches the next traffic light. I think to myself as the words resound in my head: She seems as though she does not want to be happy. Perhaps she does not even understand what it means to be so. Or she feels undeserving of it. List them under: “Current Issues”. A kid on a purely candy diet, she has been jumping from one sugar rush to the next. Her entire default baseline respect for nutrition is reflective in the resume of an irresponsible and washed out intern.

The epiphany scratches against the insides of my head. My soul cringes as the clawing wave of thought drags its weight back into the dark ocean it traversed to reach me. Each ebbing rush back onto shore is a reminder of brittle hope. I try not to get lost into the overwhelming sense of despair lurking in the horizon.

— -
All of my facial muscles squirm as either squinting eyelids tremble uncontrollably. My eyes widen after a split second as the train docks into the station on time. The doors open up, spewing out office workers and gorging on its second helping like a bullimic. I take my place in the metal worm, irrelevant to the fellows around me. Checking out the brunette at my 12 O’ Clock, I glance to my wristed watch.

Time to wake up to my next lemon.

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