Straight Towards the Sun

and it burst; right before my very eye.

When I was younger I used to love falling down. From the ages of 7 to 12 years, I cycled to primary school every day in my baju kurung or oversized pinafore and I'd whiz pass all the cars and the nasi lemak man at the corner who reported to my parents that I never looked before crossing the road. When they chastised me for it, I went and screamed at him (in all my 7-year-old brazen courage). He must have been amused. Stupid nasi lemak man. Anyway, falling down was a regular, almost daily occurrence. There was something infinitely satisfying about bloodied knees and scraped palms. I also loved scabs, because they were absolutely delicious to peel. The feeling is not unlike how I feel when I've lifted heavier weights or strained my back cutting the hedge and the next day, my muscles ache but it feels so very, very good. When you are young, all you want to do is show off your scars and tell the world that you have been through something significant; you have experienced physical pain and are proud of it. But when you get older, scars are something you want to hide.

Now, I hate falling down. The last time I fell was a few months ago as I was turning the corner while running. I skidded on gravel, lost my balance and stumbled, flailing like a fool. My knees hit the road with a sickening thud, then blood blossomed through my leg. There was a huge hole in my tracksuit where my right knee had taken most of the impact, and I could see tiny stones buried within the bloody mess. My knee must have fallen directly on a rock of some kind because there was, literally, a mini-crater right there. There was dirt all around and embedded within the wound, and blood was running down my leg. It was horrifyingly painful, and absolutely fantastic. Funnily enough, the only thought that was running through my head was "YOU HAVE TO FINISH YOUR LAST 2 KM!" And so I got up, and I did.

The pain is temporary; the pleasure eternal.