Yesterday afternoon at the laundromat, between the paralyzing Miri heat and religious practice of fasting, I sat at a lonely bench in the store with two poetry books: Tidak Ada New York Hari Ini (lit. There is No New York Today) by Indonesian poet and writer, M Aan Mansyur, and No Matter The Wreckage by America’s favorite poet sweetheart, Sarah Kay. I took a minute to contemplate; I flipped open a random page of No Matter the Wreckage and read through chapters vi. to viii.
And I thought to myself: this is who I am.
I do not know how to love in equal measures; I love too much, or none at all. I will always love the rarely understood comfort of solitary words over noisy chatter that leads to nowhere; I have a social capacity that comes only in small volume. I will always choose myself first over another person, no matter how much I have proclaimed love towards. I am selfish; I want the world to laugh and grief with me depending on my emotional weather of the day. I internalize and feel too much.
I think it was a loneliest moment:
Myself sitting cross-legged on a vacant bench in a laundromat on a hot Saturday afternoon, with a poetry book in hand.
I do not know how to change old habits and ways; I am filled, constantly, with too much muchness.