Month: October 2017

The greater purpose.

I’ve been so caught up in the avalanche of workloads that I find my shoulder hurting and my entire self salivating for a bite, just one tiny, minuscule, microscopic bite of a cheesecake forever craved.

I’ve never had such a week where everything seems to have gone wrong. And yet, dear ghosts, I find myself impeccably calm in such situations, uncaring for the personal judgments of my superiors that I felt incredibly liberated from the fatal thoughts of the “what if they don’t like me?”. I suggest you all try it. Freeing.

In the other light, there are so many things to look forward to in the next concluding months of 2 0 1 7. I want to begin with fulfilling numero uno on my list of fernweh’s having started Harper F.M. and that is to visit the vivacious, mountainous, racketeering New Zealand of Down Down Under. Yes, in countable days, I shall be trekking with a Maz-tiff by my side, ploughing down the road with our Brego’s and our Legolas wigs styled the Targaryen way.

And upon the conclusion of that trek (edit: cannot wait), we return to the shores of a few more weeks of the day job before finding ourselves in a time wrap ready for the release of the sequel of the 7th of an instalment that equals to nine episodes. Stoked?

ABSOLUTELY.

Importantly, on the eve of the eve Christmas, there will be a road trip in there somewhere where I will re-live the days of lying down on an astroturf underneath the Massachusetts stars unearthing my great purpose with my favourite companion of companions, amidst shaking breaths but now, in summery flower dresses and plentiful-a-bug spray.

Melbourne. No apologies.

Before that, let’s rally the real for some fun office ping pong competition, much forgiveness, vigilance, diligence, and no fear. As, there is still much. But deep breaths, H, deep breaths.

You are called for a great purpose. Live it.

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Unapologetically free.

Harper fetches a decaf green tea, dodges a chocolate croissant and sits by her newly-acquired desk. Contemplating, whirring, lazily trying to collate her thoughts on the subject of availability.

When she has lunch everyday at five past twelve, rarely anyone joins her. “I like it,” she admits, sipping her tea. “I’m quite antisocial and it wouldn’t be fair to them if I replied to messages while they talked adult stuff.”

Harper says “adult stuff” like the lady to her right isn’t three years older than her. “Yeah, but she’s building a house.” And that was the end of that conversation. She alludes to the rhetoric of being available in a society so nuanced in its busyness. She hardly finds the time nor (definitely) the energy to even sit her butt and finish her little novella, about three years old now.

FM: What’s it about?

H: A limping girl. With a secret.

FM: Sounds obvious.

H: See my dilemma?

And she blames everyone’s attendance in her life though she is mostly preoccupied by napping.

FM: I remember once you saying how cumquats should not look like oranges.

H: Because one grew large enough to be mistaken as a mandarin. Do you know how unfairly disappointing that was? It was summer.

FM: Perhaps this limping girl grows cumquats.

H: And while she’s trimming the plant, she falls on her bad leg illiciting a small cry of pain. And who but comes?

FM: A gentlem-

H: A cat. Or at least, I’d like to think it’s a cat.

Then she drifts off on a tangent about croissants.

Harper finds herself always on the lookout for the presence of wonder. One time she went to climb the peak of a mountain simply to sit and stare. Her best friend panicked, thinking she was about to fall off (and mighty be such death), but she simply shrugs in amnesty. She says that sitting on hilltops or mountain peaks at a summit high above ground makes her grow nervous in anticipation for the wondrous unknowns. She asks, “Have you ever felt that?”

And I am reminded by the time I decided not to climb that gargantuan Redwood tree because I was afraid to get scratched.

“Live freely,” she says, blinking a few times. “Unapologetically.”