Beneath the Hush

I remember when I was young, I was one of those kids who had a pet belonging, like a tattered blanket or yellowed pillow case, that they lugged around wherever they went. It became dirty; I couldn't understand the concept and disregarded that fact. It developed a stench; I refused to part with it even for the short term. It became a hindrance to my activities; I forced the environment to accommodate. My mum threatened me; I was prepared to battle to my last breath. In the end, my mum threw it away behind my back and only confessed many years later.

And then I found something else to carry around. An article less cumbersome, and not easily detected by the unsuspecting passer-by. A secret. I figured I should be happy. Now that I got to pick up from where I was rudely knocked off, never to be deterred by anyone again.

And then I questioned the wisdom of creating this weight on my back. Perhaps that was why my mum had been so adamantly against that pet peeve of mine. Perhaps that was why, in the first place, society frowned upon that bad habit as though it were contagious. Sometimes, when all around me is quiet, and peaceful, the silence rings in my ears and gives me a turbulent headache.

And then I try to understand this puzzling urge to reveal myself, just to incur public judgment. I get wound back in time, imagining what it feels, to be able to hold on stubbornly to my disgrace, and to have the whole world embrace me for it.