(The last time i tried to write stories is when i was 14 years old, about twin princesses separated by destiny and reunited by love.Lolz 😜Here’s another try…)-
My name’s not Kaja (you say it as kaya). It’s a lie. Just like how everything in my world is a lie. I once posted on my facebook account about how i live a charmed life. Actually, i don’t.my i was just trying to be sarcastic. Mine is a life of sorrows and tears and desperations, and loneliness and endless fight for survival, for my sanity and for my place in this mad mad world. I feel like i’m wearing a mask, living a double life. Hard shelled, tough hearted on the outside, but vulnerable and helpless inside.my nose always buried on my reporter’s noted book our News writing teacher gave us.
People have different impressions of me. Those who knew me back in college have seen this punk-haired happy-go-lucky gal sitting on the stairs of Arts and Humanities building, laughing with my same-minded co-majors. I was either wearing a tattered shirt, my hair an uneven mess, without a care in the world. A year after that, an aspiring journalist covering mundane news, writing furiously on the police desk to fill the backpage of local publication, this time it’s my pants that is tattered and unwashed. I retained the hair, covered in cheap gel, trying to stretch every dime that passed my hand into the last day of the month into the next meager salary. Those who have crossed my path took me for a serious, hard-working wannabe, with a rebellious streak.
Only a few people know the real story of my life. I’m not keeping it a secret. though secret is my expertise. I work with secret But i’m not telling everyone either, if they don’t ask. I like it just the way it is. An open secret, for anyone to delve and analyze. An officemate asked me one afternoon why i didn’t become one of those emo people, hating the world for what it have done to me, i can’t remember what i told her. But looking back, my answer would be that i don’t have the energy anymore to hate on the world. I cried and cried and cried, but no amount of tears can change my fate or re-align my stars, so i’ve learned to compartmentalize my emotions into locked shelves. I’m no longer a shy doe-eyed girl, i’m a warrior. And i’m out for blood. ***
She glanced at the purple clock on the wall across her desk, which informed her it’s 7:24pm. She made a quick mental note of things she needs to do before going home while gathering her stuff from atop her messy worktable, scribbling on post it note and sticking it on the front page of the report that came just before 6, two hours late from the cut off. A mug, still half full of stale coffee have ants crawling around it. She considered rinsing it off before heading out but decided against it. Let the ants have a coffee party.
The other cubicles, arranged like an H without the middle line, are empty, except the last one near the door, with the occupant typing furiously, perhaps in an effort to wrap the day’s job.
She picked her black sling bag, stuffed her phone charger and headed for the cubicle. “Hey, just leave it!!! I’m hungry! ”
An arm extended out from the opening of the cubicle and gestured with the middle and index finger, two pages, two minutes, two hours, it’s an open interpretation but she knows exactly it means it’s a rush job and needed immediately. She peered inside the cubicle and look at the documents, the top page with striking bold red letter on top…. TO BE CONTINUED
(Hi sweety! If you’re reading this, I know you’re awake 😜 lol Good morning baby! Wear your jacket 😘 Cold today xoxoxoxoxoxo👄 love you bunch! )