When Juita is sad she cries like everyone else. She sits in her room, in the city heat after that lonely drive at rush hour, listens to sad songs. Some with guitars in them, acoustic or electric, strumming her sad sad heart. Like a lot of us who cry alone she didn’t need tissues or other means of drying her eyes. Her sodden right arm on her chin, just letting the tears roll one by one to form a globe of water glistening on her elbow lying across the pillow.
She speaks to god like she speaks to a friend she loves. One she’s wronged so many times, but also one who still lets her inside to listen.
“So how’s it going? I bet you’re happy”.
“Yeah, Jay, I’m like the queen of happy. The goddess of sunshine.”
“So what’s the deal here? You took him away so you could keep him for yourself? You can do better than that, you know? He’s not even tall enough for you. Huh? Katie fucking Holmes?”
The embrace, at the end of every session was long and sweet. Like a roof that never leaks. Juita holds on to god because god held on to her. She returns after long sojourns to tell god that yeah maybe it wasn’t such a good trip but she went ahead anyway. She saw creation, life, despair and always sweet, sweet joy.
God enfolds her in this huge bubble of awareness. A sense of presence that’s within her, extending outward to shield her whole being from the filth. She floats in her bubble until the inevitable moment where it bursts and she’d fall smiling again onto earth, ready to walk with head held up high and face the throbbing streets of Kuala Lumpur.