Crying For My Elevator Smile

I used to enjoy elevator rides.That surprise of being greeted at the 4th floor (i think) by a smile.Then that blank moment of inertia,as the elevator goes two floors up.Then as that smile exits the elevator,my heart cries out so loudly,to the oblivious ears of those around me.And I’ll carry that dazed,mortified facial expression back to my desk.And the welcoming colleagues knew,at that instant that I had once again been in touch with an angel at the elevator.

I used to enjoy days about being in an office.That empowering feeling of being productive.That superhuman strength of knowing that no rejections or objections can dent my day,because I looked forward to another tomorrow for another elevator ride.I had no reasons to be mad,bored or just plain silly.I just looked forward to an elevator ride.

I used to wonder in the elevator.Scrambling words in my mind to form a tangible sentence,yet not fast enough to mutter it all out in time.When the door opens,out of an inner humiliation of stupidity,I’ll turn to the safe haven of the gents.And in the toilet,I’ll look at myself in the mirror,half cursing,half swearing at that piece of incapable persona.What’s the use of having my pictures plastered over walls,when I cannot even say,”How’s your day?”

I used to ponder why,two individuals trapped within the confines of a 2 times 2 meters of space,can create a suspenseful amount of tension that was unwarranted and unwanted.What’s even worse,is how my mind can go blank?Why didn’t I have that lustful thoughts?Why didn’t I have that creative streak?Those eureka moments?Why didn’t I have that goofy moments?Why nothing?Why blank?Yet,when that same space is filled up with people,that desire of inching a million words,filled me up,overwhelmingly.

I used to love the way the smile presented itself.With a make up.Without a make up.With a tied hair.With a free flowing straight hair.I used to love just the anticipation of spotting that smile.My heart skipped and danced whenever that happened.Funny.

I used to be inspired.Why am I realistic now?Too realistic.I no longer dream of impossibilities.

Hidetoshi Nakata inspired me.To be that free flowing,anti conventional and maverick like player,who practices his free kicks just to get that needed swing for a curve.Now,I’m a pale shadow of him.A pragmatic and realistic player,who has let his knee become his bane and excuse for non performances.That realistic function has restricted me.Darn.

I used to write poems.Lyrics.Letters.Quotes.Now,I cannot even get that single word to be laced with a tinge of emotion.It’s like breathing,but without the air.Going through the motion of expressions?

I used to live in a bubble of beautiful expectations.Hopeful gratifications.I dreamed the impossible dream.In that elevator,I used to dream and see myself as that suave and charismatic financial consultant who had,at my call and fingertips,the associations with airline stewardess and wannabe models.In that elevator,I pumped myself,into believing that I was a walking and breathing symbol of the sensitive new age guy.

I used to pen letters.Handwritten letters,in blue and black inks.Carefully resting the ball of my palm,on the table,flexing the pen with just enough tightness and ease,to craft every single letter on pieces of paper,as the train of thoughts are carefully channeled through that funnel of comprehension.Inspired by that satisfaction of going to bed,knowing that a piece of myself had been transcripted onto a piece of wood,for the reflections of another.Everytime I wrote a piece it felt like as if I am leaving a small legacy.

I don’t even take the time to travel to Raffles Place to even look at Fullerton.I even detest the thought of going there,as the whirlpool of sentiments draws me in.I’m contented to just let my fingers do the talking,via,the analog movements of my XBOX controllers.

I scrolled through my yellow notebook.Which had a picture of me standing in front of Fullerton hotel.In it,was a list of goals I had set out for myself.And I hate that book.As with all other note books I had,listing down all my goals.Goals are detestable.Goals are nasty.Goals are just depressing.Because goals are reminders.Reminders of commitments and promises one make to himself.When it’s not achieved,it’s self betrayal,and I have too much of that self betrayals/unfulfilled goals.I am mad at my under achievement.I am not contented slipping into that bed of contentment at mediocrity.

I need to treat my life like that particular elevator rides.That instinctive desire of catching that smile,led me to formulate a schedule of “chanced” opportunities.No matter if the elevator went up or down,I still have to get into it and bask in the ride.I can choose to enjoy the fleeting moments of privacy,or,revel in the company of others.Success and joy in life is very much like that beautiful smile.People do not have to notice,in order for you to appreciate it.It can be by strokes of luck,or by the power of conscious choice.I can marvel at it,dream about it,hope about it and fight for it.Even if that smile is not meant to be yours,the idea of it even remotely being possible for you,is enough to drive one into that delirious mode of zeal and focus.

Who said you have to read a gazillion books on self development to know what drives you?

I found mine in an elevator ride…

…for even now,I still believe in that rhetorical question.

“Where are you going Jaz?”

By which my elevator answer will be…

“I will know when I’m there.”


One thought on “Crying For My Elevator Smile

  1. i’m just wondering who is this awe-inspiring angel… still… i believe everyone has those feelings.. maybe growing up makes us more functional.. at the same time cynical…

    i dun wanna grow up.. ever… so fun to live like a child and look at the world with innocent eyes.. things were so uncomplicated.. so simple…

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