Moby Dick is Not a God

What comes first into one’s mind when the name Moby-Dick is brought up?

“Call me Ishmael?” Respect for nature? Epistemology? Humanity? Or, perhaps, the similar movie In the Heart of the Sea by “Thor” Chris Hemsworth?

Indeed, renowned in the world for being one of the cornerstones in American literature, 19th century writer Herman Melville’s novel Moby-Dick, which consists of two closely intertwined storylines, one regarding the narrator Ishmael’s critical explorations of the topic “whales” and the other unravelling a compelling maritime voyage hunting an albino sperm whale known to sailors as Moby Dick, has been continuously interpreted and reinterpreted for centuries. Nonetheless, though somehow diverged from the traditional and highly regarded theories, I argue that Moby-Dick is also a literary expression of atheism, or the rejection of the existence of deities.

Let us consider the subject by first approaching the context. Throughout the story, the theme of atheism is suggested from two aspects: one, the latent sameness between the nature of the sailors’ collective fear and wrath for Moby Dick and that of religious worship; two, the continuous implication of the whale Moby Dick as a deity.

Now, to establish the link between Moby Dick and religion, first consider this question: how did Moby Dick gain its fame amongst the sailors? The answer lies evident in the text—through the mythical tales regarding encounters with it, or, “the wild rumors…which sometimes circulate here [on the sea] (p.197).” The reason given for the circulation of such rumors is that “whalemen as a body [is] unexempt from that ignorance and superstitiousness hereditary to all sailors; but of all sailors, they are by all odds the most directly brought into contact with whatever is appallingly astonishing in the sea…(p.198)” In other words, fear of the unknown, or the innate limitation in knowledge and perception of the world—the sea, specifically—gave birth to the myths of Moby Dick, which thenceforth spread further among the sailors so as to create a general system of belief that claims Moby Dick as “ubiquitous (p.200)” and “immortal (p.201).” Astonishingly, the construction of such a belief system corresponds with some of the most prominent Western philosophical theories regarding the origin of religions in the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries. For example, consider the theory proposed by English philosopher Thomas Hobbes: “Whatever we imagine is finite. Therefore there is no idea or conception of anything we call infinite. No man can have in his mind an image of infinite magnitude, nor conceive infinite swiftness, infinite time, or infinite force, or infinite power … And therefore the name of God is used, not to make us conceive him (for he is incomprehensible, and his greatness and power are inconceivable), but that we may honour him…(Hobbes, Leviathan, 3.12)” The idea that God is used by people because of the limited conception of things and the finiteness inherent in perception coincides with Ishmael’s analysis of the tales of Moby Dick. (Not to mention that the classification of Moby Dick as a whale and the reiteration of it being a leviathan echo with the title of Hobbes’ book already.) Philosopher David Hume’s explanation, that “[the] idea of God, as meaning an infinitely intelligent, wise, and good Being, arises from reflecting on the operations of our own mind, and augmenting, without limit, those qualities of goodness and wisdom(EU, 2.6/19; and cp. TA, 26/656; EU, 7.25/72)”, suggests further underlying consistency. Regarding the rumors, Ishmael mentioned that “nor did the wild rumors of all sorts fail to exaggerate…for not only do fabulous rumors naturally grow out of the very body of all surprising terrible events…but, in maritime life…wild rumors abound, wherever there is any adequate reality for them to cling to…(p. 197)” Conspicuously, the rumors of Moby Dick share the same property with the necessary component of the construction of religion—the unlimited augmentation of operations in human minds. The only difference is that the former augments all fear and evilness while the latter all goodness and wisdom. Even more closely resembling the Moby Dick belief system is the nature-worship theory proposed by Max Muller. The theory claims that because of the existence of unknown phenomena in nature, religion was created for the purpose of explaining: “Gods are personified phenomena of nature and no more (Parrinder, 1966).” In addition to the theoretical evidence, certain repetitions that was used by Melville while describing Father Mapple’s sermon and Captain Ahab’s frantic introduction of Moby Dick to the staff of Pequod might also be implying the link between preaching of religion and “preaching” of Moby Dick. For instance, the reoccurring description of both men tossing their arms up and heavily heaving their chests while preaching (p. 51; p. 179), not to mention the same fanaticism displayed by them.

Taking Moby Dick itself into account, it can be easily noticed that Moby Dick is frequently labeled as being “ubiquitous” and “immortal” by the sailors. These two words suggest plenty already: corresponding with two typically acknowledged traits of deities, “omnipresent” and “omnipotent”, they seem to imply that in maritime tales, Moby Dick plays the role as god. We can find plenty of buffering evidence suggesting the analogy between Moby Dick and deity by looking more specifically into the text. When first stepping into the Spouter-Inn, Ishmael was grasped by a peculiar painting. The content of the painting is thus described: “In fact, the artist’s design seemed this…the picture represents a Cape-Horner in a great hurricane; the half-foundered ship weltering there with its three dismantled masts alone visible; and an exasperated whale, purposing to spring clean over the craft, is in the enormous act of impaling himself upon the three mast-heads (p. 12).” The whale’s vital exasperation, unaffected by the violent tantrums of nature, compared with the vulnerability of the ships, tokens its powerfulness in comparison with the mortals. Despite the said, the painting, which is to a large degree similar to a scene in the Book of Jonah in which great waves were fumbling on the surface of the sea, threatening the lone ship, while a great whale surfaces to swallow Jonah, seems also to imply the biblical story of Jonah—the sermon that was later preached by Father Mapple. In the Book of Jonah, because of Jonah’s disobedience to the Lord, the Lord produced fatal waves on the sea while Jonah was on board of a ship seeking refuge from Him. Hence, the shared ability of dominating the sea highlights a certain degree of omnipotence whales possesses, strengthening the resemblance of Moby Dick as a deity.

Considering from the two aforementioned aspects, the belief system regarding Moby Dick can be considered as a direct reflection of the fundamental nature of religions. However, such a connection is not meant to praise. By assimilating the creation of the fear and wrath shared by sailors for Moby Dick to theoretical processes of creating a religion and emphasizing Moby Dick’s godly “traits”, the author is simultaneously raising Moby Dick to a parallel position with deities. Such a parallelism hints that deities, like Moby Dick, are possibly mere creations of human imagination, thus reducing religion to a more primitive position that is more easily exposed to repudiation (Parrinder, 1966; Evans-Pritchard, 2004). At the same time, through the parallel relationship established, the evilness and ruthlessness attributed to Moby Dick by the tales might indicate the belief that God, likewise, is evil—a typical atheist opinion. In addition, through depicting Ahab’s combat with Moby Dick, especially his stabbing it, the belief claiming that Moby Dick is “immortal” is effectively rebutted. Considering the connection between Moby Dick and deities, this largely rejects even the existence of gods, suggesting that what was considered “immortal” could end up being proved just “mortal” as well.

Jumping out of the plot, we can also discover signs of atheism in the author’s attitude towards religion, which seeped out from his composition and left traces in the text.

The most conspicuous outburst of Melville’s attitude occurred in the parts describing the Whaleman’s Chapel and Father Mapple’s sermon. Said in the text, in the Whaleman’s Chapel, “each silent worshipper seemed purposely sitting apart from the other, as if each silent grief were insular and incommunicable (p. 37).” Notice what this implies about the purpose of the people’s going to church. Here, the combination of “silent worshipper” and “silent grief” indicates that, according to the author, the reason why these people came to the chapel is not religious zeal, but simply “grief”. Combined with the proceedings in this chapter, it can be inferred that this “grief” is merely the commemoration of the loss of their family to the sea. What lies underneath is the fact the author is trying to hint: the locals go to the chapel only out of etiquette—ironic enough. Father Mapple’s sermon is even richer in sarcasm. While preaching the Book of Jonah, he burst out a sentence as such: “As with all sinner’s among men, the sin of this son of Amittai was in his willful disobedience of the command of God—never mind now what that command was, or how conveyed-which he found a hard command (p. 46).” Typically, what follows “never mind” is associated with relatively small significance. However, as a preacher, Father Mapple deliberately emphasized the insignificance of God’s commands. Instead, considering the context, it is “the hardness of obeying God” that he actually wants to preach. This largely dogmatized his preaching and indicates Melville’s dissatisfaction with the inflexibility and indoctrination of religion. The rest of the sermon finished telling the first chapter of the Book of Jonah and ended with the verse “and God had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah (p. 45).” However, throughout his sermon, Father Mapple stressed not the purpose of religion, but the illogical, unreasoned worship of God. And the deliberate cutting off at the first chapter subtly avoids the depiction of God as a merciful, compassionate Father in the following chapters of the Book of Jonah, therefore garbling the original purpose of praising the compassion of God, and twists it into an extremely indoctrinated command for all people to obey God. Such a design critiques religion by portraying it as mechanical and compulsive.

With the analysis of context and author’s attitude backing up, though as a critical component of the American Renaissance it is not conventionally viewed as an atheist novel, Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick actually includes a large amount of design that seems to connect the story with atheist beliefs, suggesting atheism as one of the various possible themes of this profound, meaningful novel.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Evans-Pritchard, Edward Evan. Theories of Primitive Religion. Repr. ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2004

Hobbes, Thomas, Leviathan. London, 1651; edited with an introduction by E. Curley, Indianapolis: Hackett, 1994.

Hume, David, Enquiry concerning Human Understanding, edited by Tom L. Beauchamp. Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 1999.

Hume, David, A Treatise of Human Nature, edited by L. A. Selby-Bigge, 2nd edition, revised by P.H. Nidditch. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975.

Hume, David, Enquiry concerning Human Understanding, in Enquiries concerning Human Understanding and concerning the Principles of Morals, edited by L. A. Selby-Bigge, 3rd edition revised by P. H. Nidditch. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975.

Parrinder, E. G. “The Origins of Religion.” Religious Studies 1, no. 2 (1966): 257-61. http://www.jstor.org/stable/20004628.

Underneath the Surface

How does one know where to begin talking about something that cuts so deep that it is now a labyrinth in my heart?

Should I start with the setting?

It was a bright, sunny autumn day. I remember the scent of the air, sweet and minty with the refreshing flavor of fallen leaves, gushing into my nose as I gasped and struggled for air while…

No. No. It’s too painful…

I remember… being in a small park. The ground of the park was neatly tiled with yellow and brown bricks—the bricks that seemed to be a thousand miles beneath my white and orange Nike sneakers, desperately kicking in midair, trying to find a log to hang onto in the current…

I remember walking home that day, wearing my red GAP hoodie, which was so ill-fitted that when a breeze comes, it dangles about me like a flag on a pole. It’s red hue. The same red hue that flew frantically before my tear-blurred vision…

I remember that I had my hair tied up in two pigtails, ear-high, each decorated with small blue ribbons. I could still feel the wild strands of hair slapping disconcertedly against my cheeks, making them burn with pain and embarrassment…

My arms were nowhere in sight as they were pinned behind me by a pair of big boy’s hands. The violent force against my waist pulled me from solid ground, leaving my feet kicking uselessly in the air. My throat was burning from crying and yelping, and my eyes swelled from the tears.

Punches, kicks, and tickles rain down onto my thin body as I shifted my eyes upward towards the sky, trying to escape reality by simply avoiding the sight of it. I bit my lower lip and endured, like always.

How innocent and purely blue the sky was! Yet it felt like a sheet of water enveloping my world, shutting fresh air out of my sniffling little lungs, pushing me underneath, underneath the surface…

I was third grade, primary school, the skinniest, most vulnerable girl in school.

Violence started from that ghastly day and haunted me, preyed on me for two years.

Astonishingly, though, while every other little detail was imprinted in me, while every scene flashes easily back before my eyes once in a while, I cannot bring myself to recollect the physical pain.

Perhaps it was all too anguishing that my mind set up a barrier to block it.

Or, perhaps the physical pain wasn’t what kept dragging me down, deeper and deeper…

When I walked into the classroom, 30 pairs of eyes fell on me and followed my every step. An alarm rang off furiously in my brain, for I was fully aware that under normal circumstances, I was never one to cause a stare.

My cheeks flared up, as usual, as I crawled into my seat beside the window. Finding my temporary haven, I immediately shifted my eyes to the verdant branches outside the classroom window, trying to encircle myself into a separate, serene little cage, safe from the devouring eyes.

Silence befell the classroom.

In such icy, deadlocked torment I wandered through the first ten minutes. A gentle pressure on my right shoulder summoned me back into reality. My desk-mate, with a somewhat sullen look, handed me his cellphone.

Before even having a second to ponder the meaning of his actions, I immediately caught sight of a large, clear photo of myself standing in front of a chestnut-colored classroom door.

“What—” The sentence never fully came out.

Ugliest Girl in School Bullies Boy Classmates. –XX Post Bar.

Black Captions. Standing out so firmly on the smooth white screen.

A sharp pain thrashed through me. My mind lost its focus, blurring out as if a fish underneath the surface trying to inspect the world outside of the water. Words rushed at me from behind the screens, but I was too numb, too stiff to catch them. Yet from the few words I grasped, I saw…myself. The small, small words, so squarely and handsomely typed, made their way into my throat and remained as needles, pricking deep into my flesh.

Matchstick person.

Dark complexion.

Skinny waist with a big pot belly.

Hunchbacked.

Small, slanting eyes.

Ugliest girl in school.

Bully…

Bullies don’t deserve to go to school!

Which school is she in? You should definitely kick her out of school!

Unbelievably courageous for such an ugly girl!

……

I guess I should have cared more about the fact that I, who was the victim, was being called a bully and nastily insulted by internet surfers. Just because I wasn’t online yesterday and didn’t help the “boy who was being bullied” finish his English homework. But the truth is, the word that stung me the most was not “bully,” but “ugliest.”

Dear Diary:

Today is my first day at school. But…I don’t like school. It’s scary. When all the other boys and girls look at me, I feel so strange and uncomfortable that I tripped on my own feet. In front of everyone.

Why can’t I just stay at home?

2009.09.01

I guess I always knew that I was somehow…a victim. I had always suspected that I was…this ugly, cowardice little creature in the eyes of others.

For as far as my memory reaches, I had been this skinny, awkward little girl that could never dare to look at someone straight in the eyes, not even my own in the mirror.

Do you remember going to Disneyland when you were young? Naïve little boys and girls would dress up in delicate gowns as princes and princesses, admiring themselves in front of the “magic mirror” on the “castle” wall, sheepishly yet proudly whispering the question “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest one of all?”

Oh, how I envied their courage of saying so! Whenever I passed by a mirror, I would pick up my pace and deliberately shift my eyes to the opposite direction, afraid of unconsciously catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror—catching a glimpse of that sallow faced little creature who seemed as though she could be blown away by one breeze.

I have always been sanely conscious with my unusually unhealthy figure. Of course, even if I wanted to forget about it—and believe me when I say that I’ve tried, so hard—I failed every single time because I was so very constantly reminded of it by everyone around me. As early as in kindergarten, parents would gawk at me with a worried stare when I float out of the classroom, whispering to each other, “my god, look how skinny that girl is!” I was always left out of sports because “we don’t want to break your fragile little bones.” I was tripped by naughty boys in class because I “look like the easiest one to trip…”

I silently got used to retreating into the corner of every room, sitting alone and letting the self-abasement brew inside. A phantom hovered within—and that phantom was me, myself, how I imagined people around me perceived me.

Tell me, then, can you imagine the day when your phantom actually becomes more than a phantom; it actually materializes and snaps your throat into the grasp of its fingers? Can you imagine hearing the words you are most afraid of hearing, seeing the truth you most detest being laid out in front of you?

I often speculated, while sprawling on the bottom of the pool and letting the translucent blue pressure about me swallow me into its embrace, how my life would be if I were plumper and prettier.

Definitely happier, thought I.

I wouldn’t have to walk through flames every time someone looks at me. I wouldn’t have to endure the killing self-reproach for making my mother wipe tears off her face every time a parent joked about how skinny I was; wondering out loud whether my mother was abusing me or not.

I wouldn’t have gone through the suffocating desperation when I saw my wounds being exposed and commented on the internet. I wouldn’t have cut my hair and clawed my face in a frenzy. I wouldn’t have cried into the pillow, twitching my body and writhing on the sheets and punching the air and letting out silent screams just to let out that gush of anger and contempt for myself.

I wouldn’t have to endure the violent bullying because I was weak. I wouldn’t have to wear long-sleeves and jeans to cover up my bruises and scars from loving, caring eyes. I wouldn’t have cried my way home day after day.

Perhaps I could even learn to love myself…

For a time, I just wanted to stay below the surface.

I wanted to sink. I wanted to cry a river without anybody noticing. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs without making a noise. I wanted to finally feel free, to let loose of myself and give in to gravity. I wanted to feel the heavy weight of the innocent, innocent blue pushing me beneath the surface, underneath the world that seemed so very remote to me……

When the ray of pure, white light shone on me from above, my eyelids fluttered unconsciously as I tried to strain my eyes open. The strong light above me felt warm as it tranquilly kissed my skin, attracting me to stay closer to the spotlight, like a fire does to a moth. My breasts heaved heavily as I tried to convince myself that it is reality. It is reality indeed.

One. Two. And Three. Music.

An eight-teeth-showing smile fixed itself onto my powdered face as the first beautiful note poured out from the loudspeaker. The redness of my face caused by the awkwardness several minutes ago in the dressing room backstage still has not ebbed from my cheeks. The burning sensation, the smoldering self-consciousness accumulating inside me when I closed my eyes and leaned in for the makeup artist to do my makeup, was still vivid. My eyelids had not yet rebound from the heavy weight traced by the soft featherlike makeup brush, still trembling a bit. My ears were still hurting from the sudden, yet obviously untrue, compliment from the makeup artist, “Such a delicate face you have! Pretty girl!”

But all melted into nothing as I began to move with the music.

Nothing else is as brightly lit as me in the gigantic auditorium. All eyes were on me. I would have freaked out, but I could not help but move together with the rhythm. I flung my thin arms into the air, reaching, reaching with all my might into the warmth of the spotlight, feeling energy, power, and strength liberate themselves into the atmosphere around me. My heartbeat sped up as the dance was flowing through me and the music. The long, red silk hem of my dress flung frantically in front of my eyes as I swung my leg in midair with all my might. My high ponytail splashes onto my face once in a while in the wildness of movements. Oh! The power! The strength!

My visions somehow grew blurry with tears of pious joy, resonating with the complete religious devotion expressed in the dance, unconsciously dripping down from my extended eyelashes. With my hindered vision suddenly came a courage I had never possessed in my life. I raised my eyes from the ground. I could not see very well behind the fresh tears, but I fixed my gaze on the colorful bliss in front of me which I assumed to be the audience. I did not flinch.

The narration of the dance slowly arose from the loudspeaker with a calm, gentle, yet passionate voice, rapping the dance up as I knelt on the floor with both hands crossed in front of my chest and my eyes in the sky: “On every lotus sits a Buddha. I see the Buddha, but the Buddha does not see me.” For the first time in my life, I lost myself, as if invisible. I danced with the utmost zeal, an almost religious worship, finally ridding that self-reproach, self-abasement, self-loathing, self-consciousness exerted on me by myself and by what I’d been through, finally overpowering the phantom in my heart…

Should this day be the first good day in my life? Or should it be the fresh beginning of a brand-new miserable life in endless shame and shyness? It was hard to tell by then.

It all started with a simple conversation—the first encouragement I have ever heard from someone besides my parents.

“Hello! Have you ever learned dancing before?”

“Um. No.”

“Well how extraordinary! From your figure I thought you must be a professional dancer! But it doesn’t matter if you haven’t learned dancing before. You are so slim and beautiful that it would be a great waste of gift if you don’t join the school dancing team! You should really consider!”

“Um. I don’t know…”

“Well, give it a thought! If you’ve decided to join, come to me at the dancing classroom on the fifth floor! I’ll spare you the audition and you can go to class directly!”

Somehow, after being wedged into the classroom by force by my parents, I ended up bashfully fidgeting on my feet in front of the enormous glass mirror at the front of the dancing classroom.

At first, every step I took and every movement I tried to copy was like walking through purgatory. But as quitting halfway was not an option, I bit my lip and endured, as I have done a thousand times before.

The sight of my long, bony arms and legs with the joints quirkily standing out in the mirror simply repulsed me. My eyes watered a little every time I caught a glimpse of myself and the others in the mirror, pondering how piteous I should be now in the eyes of my fellow dancers. I marveled at what beautiful actions the teacher could perform with her body but thought to myself how ugly it must be when I attempt to copy that beauty on my poor figure; an ugly duckling trying to be a graceful swan.

Yet, I prolonged my suffering by staying late after every class. I waited until everyone was gone and I was the sole wanderer in the large, bleak classroom. I forced my stare at the mirror. I tried my best to snap my long, perplexed limbs into place. I imagined that I could be elegant and attractive as well.

The first time you step into a spotlight is bound to be a memory unforgettable for years to come. The warmth that hugged me as soon as I sunk under the placid white beam, the drumming of my blood speeding through my veins echoing in my ears, the soft shiver that snaked through my muscles—all so frightening, yet surprisingly appealing.

It took all my guts to stand there and hold on to that peculiar urge to remain and dance. All the scenes kept rushing back to me at once; the descriptions I saw on the article about me; the words that were spit out of the mouth of the bullies saying that I was abused because of my being born weak and ugly and timid; the kicks, punches, and bruises on my body, this same body; the awkwardness that swept throughout my entire body when I was, for numerous times during practice, forced to supervise the reflection of my dancing by looking at myself in the mirror; the petrification that haunted me every time I felt like someone was looking at me…

As everybody snaps into movement, I strived to keep up with them and not make a fool of myself. However, memories of practicing, time after time, in front of the mirror in the classroom and at home, shutting myself in my room, found their own way into my body. I stood in my corner, performing my best. For no one.

As the sentiments were being pushed up higher and higher and the dancing grew more and more strenuous, a voice seemed to seep out of the calm white beam at the center of stage, whispering, clearer and clearer, “come closer, closer!”

An itch started to writhe within my chest, which I at first failed to comprehend, but finally burst out as a craving; I want to be noticed! I wish to be seen by the audience! I wish to prove to everyone that I can be beautiful and confident as well! I wish to be something more than a background! I wish to be in the spotlight!…

Five years have passed since that first experience under the spotlight planted the seed of craving for beauty and attention, breaking the spell of endless self-loathing and finally teaching me to find a way to love myself.

Every now and then, when I look back on the period of time that tortured me so, I realize that no matter how hard I try, it will always be a part of me—the shadow, the incompletely erased sketch of that phantom seared on my bare chest, the lurking little girl behind me standing with her back slouched and her eyes on the ground, the “common” and “coarse”—it has become, whether I am willing to admit or not, what is buried underneath my façade.

Whenever I see myself appearing on the cover of the school magazines, whenever I try to restrain from blinking under the sudden flash of cameras, whenever I hear my high heels click the ground as I walk down the runway wearing the most fabulous clothes, I am reminded, with a smile, that underneath the surface, part of me is still that humble little girl—but now, I can embrace her with the utmost love.

Modernization or Dehumanization

I gazed up towards the very tip of the Puma building and tried to immerse myself into this bustling, buzzling, yet poetic world.

Rays of sunlight peered through the towering skyscrapers along Fifth Avenue, seeping into the moisty air and giving each deep breath I took a texture of the hot steam that hovers above a cup of freshly made coffee. An innocently tender gust of wind wandered through the street and brushed against my cheeks, my bare arms, my ankles.

The soft whisper of wind stung around my ankles, pulling me out of the state of immersion that I so crave to sink into. The stiff heels of my new Converse must be stained with blood now.

I giggled inwardly. Converse. The only thing that did not change on me as I grew from primary school to high school. Every single time I travel to a new city, I would beg my parents to buy me a new pair of Chuck Taylor 70s at the local outlets—no Barbies, Legos, or magnets for me please. The sparkling, girlish purple ones I carried home from Dubai, the all-black themed ones I spotted in Pattaya when I was going through a phase of boyish addictions…… Each pair now lay obediently on my shoe shelf at home, a million miles away. Yet no matter how many times my ankles get smushed by the hard canvas on a newly bought pair of Converse, I seem to be incapable of remembering to wear a pair of high-cut socks on my first date with the shoes.

I passed a yellow breakfast cart with the big letters “BAGELS” rolling on the digital screen and was instantly drawn by a milky, sugary fragrance swiftly floating through the small window at the height of my chest.

“One hot cocoa please. Thank you very much! It’s such a nice day isn’t it!”

I curiously watched the friendly owner as he stirred the brown volcanic ashes floating in the parchment-colored paper cup. His movements reminded me of my mother busying herself in the kitchen…

A smile found its way into my eyes and I could feel my gaze heating up. The truth is, I realized, that I never actually cared to remember wearing long stockings, because my parents had always been there to support me when the pain comes. Through the hot desert in Dubai, through the national parks in Kenya, through the vendors in Thailand, whenever I said “Ouch, it hurts,” their hands would immediately transform themselves into my walking stick.

“Here you are, miss. Enjoy! Have a nice day!”

I stared for a few seconds and wondered how amazing it is that I can feel his smile even through that thick, black moustache of his. But the dewy smell of hot cocoa drew me back into reality, and I turned.

The stinging pain of cloth rubbing harshly against my ankles was still present, showing even a slight inclination of worsening. As used to such small pains as I am, I bit my lip, pretended to be just fine, and kept going on.

The big display cases of a Dr. Martins store slowly folded and unfolded. And then a pond of whiteness suddenly arose before my eyes as the one-direction street hatched to become a cross. Along the cross I wandered into an open-air market swarming with people. As I blended into the stream of people, I felt an undercurrent carrying me into the direction the majority was going in a speed uncontrolled by me.

The fast pace was beginning to make my ankles hurt very badly. The edges of my low-cut socks pressed into the wounds, forcing perspiration to form into small, round droplets on my forehead. All around me was people, hurrying and chattering as if completely oblivious to everything except their own paces. The muscles around my brows tensed. A small flame kindled inside my stomach. The sting on my heels deteriorated into blunt pains.

On the verge of being devoured by the current, I gave up to my ankles.

A woman in high heels walking behind me almost bumped into me. “Sorry,” she uttered without even looking up from her phone.

As I slowed down, I returned to my own pace and surrendered to a slight limping. The friction between the hard canvas cloth and my tender skin eased, and the veil of pain lifted.

The white cloth shading the little shops beside me flapped happily in the wind. Several pigeons circled above my head in the lucid, blue sky. Several passersby wonderingly gazed at me, as though wondering what is wrong about me that forced me to walk in such a ridiculous way.

A giggle crawled into my eyes as the smoky fire torching within died off. What if I am a thousand miles away from home, alone in a big city trying to grasp an opportunity that falls only on the one in a million? I am an independent individual. The sun shone down benevolently, invigorating me with a spirit as warm as itself. The giant buildings around me seemed to be weaving together a song of wind crisscrossing through the winding gaps.

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started