It’s funny how detached we are from each other. Within each mind is nothing but a sea of detachment.
There is a cleaning lady at my university. Every time I see her, she is scrubbing the sinks in the toilets. But last semester, me and my friend noticed the most gorgeous plumage of origami flowers on her cleaning trolley.
Bright paper intricately folded and pushed into colourful plastic straws; and fifteen of these inserted into a paper coffee cup.
I’ve seen her sitting on the floor, after her shift is done, carefully folding the paper. There is a soft loving embrace with which she delicately folds the paper. With each fold, there is a sparkle in her eyes.
I heard her crying once too. I was in one of the cubicles in the toilet, feeling quite overwhelmed and anxious, because everything was falling apart, and I couldn’t feel anything anymore. And I thought it was ironic that here I was, sitting in this cubicle, listening to someone else crying outside. I realised that it was the sound of the cleaning lady and her paper covered trolley.
I had half a mind to go outside and comfort her. Or be sarcastic to her. I don’t know which. But I stayed in until she left for the best.
Many times when I see her, I feel like talking to her and asking her about her origami hobby. Tell her how lovely I think it is, or how those bright paper flowers shower warmth on my day. But I feel too detached to do that. I feel like I cannot communicate what I feel, or how I think.
So I never talk to her. I leave her to her own devices, her own flowers, her own misery, her own tears. And she will leave me to mine.
There is a cleaning lady at my university. Every time I see her, she is scrubbing the sinks in the toilets. But last semester, me and my friend noticed the most gorgeous plumage of origami flowers on her cleaning trolley.
Bright paper intricately folded and pushed into colourful plastic straws; and fifteen of these inserted into a paper coffee cup.
I’ve seen her sitting on the floor, after her shift is done, carefully folding the paper. There is a soft loving embrace with which she delicately folds the paper. With each fold, there is a sparkle in her eyes.
I heard her crying once too. I was in one of the cubicles in the toilet, feeling quite overwhelmed and anxious, because everything was falling apart, and I couldn’t feel anything anymore. And I thought it was ironic that here I was, sitting in this cubicle, listening to someone else crying outside. I realised that it was the sound of the cleaning lady and her paper covered trolley.
I had half a mind to go outside and comfort her. Or be sarcastic to her. I don’t know which. But I stayed in until she left for the best.
Many times when I see her, I feel like talking to her and asking her about her origami hobby. Tell her how lovely I think it is, or how those bright paper flowers shower warmth on my day. But I feel too detached to do that. I feel like I cannot communicate what I feel, or how I think.
So I never talk to her. I leave her to her own devices, her own flowers, her own misery, her own tears. And she will leave me to mine.
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