Racing against the tide to be the wave

breaking up into pieces and the seafoam rushes over your head since bubbles filled with air are, well, less dense.

No pictures of the tomatoes today, I’ll think another week about how to best organise the three pictures.

I already transplanted some of the seedlings into their final pots – one trough and one round pot.

I picked the ones who had true leaves out, the ones with the largest leaves (four of them) went in the through, while another seven (I think?) were put into the circular pot.

There are about another fifteen seedlings I have yet to plant, but there is no place for them to go.

By this time, where time and the differentiating factors have become too many, I cannot tell if the ones in the egg carton are stunted or truly slower.

Is it a reinforcing cycle that the plants in the trough are the best have more true leaves relative to the ones in the egg carton?

Truly, it is no longer an evidence-based comparison. How can one admit evidence like that?

After all, the trough soil got the chicken bones and eggshells already decomposing since a month ago. Is it wrong to say that then, the released nutrients are of a greater quantity now than ever?

It’s, in this way, difficult to refrain from humanising the plants. But is anthropomorphising things necessarily intolerable? What if I erred on the side of ridiculousness that any other animal able to kill us and survive can do so.

Some kind of an odd thought like that when you’re mostly cooped up at home like a free-range hen, gavage yourself because you were bored and ruin yourself all over again.

Is someone who drinks heavily and smokes and does everything that leads to the physical form breaking down, in truth, committing a long-lasting act of suicide?

The tomato plants that died in the past two weeks (three of them) wilted in a hot day and couldn’t recover like the rest. Were they truly weaker? Or is it possible that somehow they got more heat and less water in the moments that mattered?

The subjective reality that plants undergo is not, ultimately, different from those that humans or the homo-wise since it’s all subjective, anyway.

That’s like saying everyone’s world is the same because change is the only constant.

So, it’s a similarity, rather than a real mirror.

Placing a sheet pan of water inside the oven under your baking bread is usually an accepted method of creating steam to make bread soft and rise higher.

But, if I’m guessing right, too much water will end up interfering too much with the amount of heat transmitted to the bread, which forces an extension of cooking times and also risks the over-browning of the top.

After all, this is the explanation that checks out with physics and the specific heat and latent capacity of water.

I’d do the throwing water onto hot pan trick another time instead, with the pan preheated.

I made bread with date filling! Now, being the month of Ramadan, dates are plenty in the shelves. Usually, Father gets them from Mustafa, but they have been closed for a while.

Rumour said that the government told them to do 50 people for the whole complex and they were like ‘nope’. More interesting is that they tried to negotiate for a 100 because they technically have two sides. The reply went something along the lines of having a connector bridge, therefore ‘no’.

From my hazy memories of Mustafa, 50 for the whole of the mall is a bit unrealistic. Even the security guards with one a door would make 10. One cashier an area, at least twenty there. (How can you have Mustafa with only one cashier an area?)

The people restocking and ensuring safe distancing, one each again per area pushes them clean out of the quota.

Back to dates, which are called ‘kurma’ in Malay, are a fruit which reminds me of the desert in my romantic illusions of what sandstorms and camels must be like.

Being sticky and not-juicy and nothing like most other fruits, really great to turn a normal bread recipe into sticky buns!

Very sticky though, and wow if that bread pan wasn’t troublesome to wash, then only clay pots with rice are.

Soaking, of course.

One of the most interesting observations I make about people in this circuit breaker period is in terms of their support. Very few people have opinions about everything – but everyone has a couple of very strong opinions.

Since it’s circuit breaker now, it’s plain to deduce that the people I’m talking about are those I’m in contact with.

But would you induce then, that maybe it’s not them after all? Since there are news and social media now, and now nothing so easily tracked as papers and letters kept in binders and with tapes tied.

(I choked on water, which leads to coughing. Why does my throat feel scratchy? Is it dryness? A chicken-egg issue. But that’s not really why we cough.)

I just want revenge and a little bit more – to hit you with some sense.

Someday common sense will become the past sense. And then, it becomes an absence.

To become nothing is a liberating thought that is difficult. To imagine that your life might be erased from the slate.

What would happen to this laptop of mine, what of all the things in my table, my face mask, the tea in front of me?

The statements and those memories, gone – would they leave a blank in someone? Or what would fill in the void of ‘us’.

These are thoughts I expect to entertain while fasting, not now when I’m not thirsty anymore.

That intersection between the physical body and what would it be called if not mental weakness? We are not Buddha, but is that the ideal state we striving towards?

I am confused, all of a sudden.

To be told to be content – but when we aren’t. Not being content is the only way to get more, to get better and that way claim everything that we could – then I will think about being content. So it is true, I am not content with the single degree even though I know there are others who have dreamt longer, longed for longer, and did not get it.

It’s said that thinking like that leads people into a spiral of never being satisfied and only becoming more and more unhappy.

But objectively speaking, in my now, I know for certain that that is what I want. That that is what I can do and that I cannot understand why it was not given. The truth, money is important, and avenues to it and support are coveted. (Thou shalt not covet.) Next the doubled degree, this makes even less sense to my attempts to soothe my bruised ego. That’s just a matter of rigour and determination. To us, the machine, it is a process of hard work and learning to love.

If I have already gotten through econs, there is nothing more difficult.

So this is our pride speaking, I am afraid it has been masked as self-confidence.

We have found a reflection in an internet person. Still, reflections are on a 2D plane

That question of not understanding what we did wrong that made us underserving. Even if we ruminate, there is no answer to be found in ourselves because we cannot use a flawed mirror to check for imperfections.

Either everything is wrong or
everything is right
in these eyes

And someday
I will smash that mirror into bits and find a running river instead.

Here,
hear our pride,
that was not our best.

And that was judged to be
not good enough.

Our secret pride,
the virtue of honesty
is what we suspect of ourselves.

That makes us feel deeply insulted.

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