Curse of The Second Item


Written on 8 Sep 2013
After coming back home from market.

Why do I have to be emotionally attached to things I had? Why, why is it?

How earthy.

My friend has this divine point of view that everything we’ve lost must’ve been due to the upcoming of the better. Shall we lose something, it must because things that we’re holding at isn’t good enough. For us.

I object.

I have been constantly losing things for quite awhile. Things, trivialest things you could imagine.

Things you would never bother lament on. Things you wouldn’t hesitate buying replacement of. Things you wouldn’t keep sentimental feelings for.

I have kept losing hings so often that people get pretty tired putting their sympathy on, since the perpetual sloppiness of mine start to get on their nerves. It’s my fault, purely my fault. I don’t know how do I get so imbecile that I didn’t get to study the patterns of my own treats. Like, how I tend to skip remembering things if I were to focus simultaneously on several hands. To be noted of, I just noticed this when my (other) friend told me so, which I nodded upon. It was ironic that I didn’t notice this myself, after all this time I have been complaining on people inabilities to see patterns of recurring problems. Even donkey doesn’t fall into the same hole twice.

I pitied that I have to learn the hard way. Losing several times, to get it. But things are wronged so that I learn how to make it right, right? Or so I believed.

Recently I bought a green-capped plastic jar. I intended using it for keeping sugar. I like its simplicity, details, its not-that-cheap looking. The size’s just right, and it’s entirely affordable! That triumphant feeling when making a good deal sprout inside of me.

Yet I postponed pouring the sugar into it. Because I haven’t washed it—I postponed washing it. I have been coming back late night for a few days, and haven’t been generous enough to drag myself three storey downstairs just to simply wash the jar with soap. Nope. So I just placed it on the desk, side by side by jars of havermout and tissue box which all possess the same green. Syncing so sweetly that I thought of start liking the colour green.

And today! I wake up pretty much early. I had this urge of doing things—things! What, what shall I do? Ah, right, I owe pouring sugar into the green-capped jar. The day’s still young and I have plenty, plenty time to do things! I brought the jar downstairs and I thought of sterilising it a little more. Since I have time to do that. So I boiled tap water, and once bubbles rippling on its surface, I put the jar in it and—for the love of God—that jar bent inward.


Of course—for Einstein’s sake—it’s effing PLASTIC.
It was utterly sudden and folly and ridiculous that I just stare at the melting plastic, stoicly trying to bent it back and when it failed—still stoicly—I threw it to the trash bin.

What the hell—

I’ll buy the new one, I thought.

So at the afternoon I went to the precise market where I bought the jar  and look for it in the precise shelf I took it from and—it’s no longer there.

Jars are there, but no the exact green-capped one.
I haven’t been a week since I bought it and it’s no longer there why———-
Not those similar to it, not the other colour, I WANT THE EXACT ONE.
I stared ragingly at its of-other-colour siblings, lining up innocently on shelves.

Someone’s playing trick on me, I know.

But why—LORD, I used to think that my losing things roots from my not being grateful for what I have
(‘you don’t know what you’ve got until you lose it’ often chimes very mch for me).
But this! It’s not that I am not grateful for having it—I fond of it!
Very very much that I start to think of liking the colour green!

Yet why, as if by conspirative purpose, I have to damage it today and not earlier so that I could quickly get it replaced (say, if I were meant to damage it to learn that for the love of science: I shall not pour hot boiling water into plastic jar) because of all four color options, it’s coincidentally the green one that ran out of stock so rapidly!
So neatly coincidental that I’m convinced this must’ve not been one of those passerby events. But what does it try to say? That I bear this curse of couldn’t indulge things until it’s second?

I hope universe’s not laughingly conspiring another tricks while I try to decipher this.

(My fear of bearing child suddenly heighten).



The night

…more than suffice to write a sonnet that is irresistably long
about feelings that could have never been wrong.