Abandoned Places

“It’s a shame it didn’t work out.”

A sheen of concern. A performative look of disappointment. No one wanted to acknowledge the truth of what had happened, because the truth was inconvenient—a pebble in your shoe you would rather ignore than fumble to fish out.

I was that pebble, and now my career was over before it had begun.

“It’s happened to a lot of people.”

The lady from employment services was understanding. Her voice was genuine. An aunty giving advice. A favourite teacher giving consolation after a bad grade. A voice of ‘oh well, what can you do?’, like all of this was normal.

Am I crazy? Perhaps it would've been easier to toe the line. But conforming has always seemed to slowly chip away parts of my soul. Going against my better judgement leaves me nauseous, as if I’d need to physically purge the disingenuity from my system.

Is my autonomy so frightening?

Is it time to forget that self-contained one bedroom apartment? The uniform streets and daily routines? The comfort of predictability? A classroom. 25 desks. Learning your ABCs one letter after the other. Forming lines and drawing lines and making sense of lines on paper.

Time to abandon that smiling owl with the graduation cap, apple underfoot, stacks of books piled by its side. A cartoon version that would never be seen nesting in the dark, abandoned places of the real world.

In real life, the wise barn owl looks at you with black, hollow eyes—a ghostly figure of white flying in the night. It screeches like a woman dying. It inspires legends of witchcraft and sorcery. Stirs superstitions in cultures far and wide. It has been persecuted. Hung dead from churches to ward off evil. Accused of stealing light.

“We thought you would have moved out by now.”

Plans change. Those abandoned places that once seemed cold and uninviting, are beginning to look more appealing now.

If only I could, I would nest there, spread my wings, and scream into the night.

But that’s a fantasy. Like a sage-like figure appearing in your life and telling you that you’re special. You don’t belong here. You were meant for more.

“I just need time to get my mind right.”

I put my master’s degree in a box in the garage with all the rest. Every certificate marking a time in my life when I was curious and searching. I’ve stopped now. Somehow, the pain in my hip is more noticeable. I can’t eat everything like I used to. I’m not gluten or dairy intolerant, I just feel better if I don’t have it. I’m also not intolerant of people, I just feel better not being in public.

I bought some semi-expensive hiking boots the other day. I’m not sure if they make me hike any better, but they sure do look good.

I burned away my fears on paper and buried the ashes in the sand. Bathed in the warm ocean under the full moon, but it only made me itchy.

I hug my cat a little tighter than I used to. Try to interpret the meaning of her half-closed eyes. See if I can gauge any sense of understanding in those gold irises staring back at me— those dark, dilating pupils. She is my one responsibility. And that’s a cold comfort. But I am freer than most.

“It must be difficult, losing what you worked so hard for.”

I was excited. Jumping around for joy, unable to believe my own luck. A perfect opportunity. Everything I had asked for.

“I’d do anything for this job, anything.” I remember myself saying.

After my graduation ceremony, I walked past a gift table displaying soft plush toys. Smiling owls in graduation caps. Cute. Pliable. Disposable.

Owls that would never be seen in those dark, abandoned places. Or scream out into the night.

“What now?”

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “But I trust everything will work out.”