Your Wishes are almost, always Granted.

...and just like that. The very thing I wished so hard for. I prayed so hard for, made my knees bloody and ashy for. Was granted to me at such a speed it completely derails me. Catches me off guard, winding me like a kick in the balls, even though I was expecting it. Wait, I want this on my terms. Not yours. I want to be in control damnit! But you can take the reign once I decide I've had enough. Think about the thing you prayed so hard for, you put out into the universe that you must be given. It will make you happy. But when you receive it, like a spoilt child you throw it straight back, demanding it be better. Push, pull, tug. repeat.

Time is the only non-replenishing commodity we have. All the decisions we make will either make the sand run quick or sustain the flow. You will never be given more than you're allocated. Yet, here we are wishing our days run quickly by and we demand more time. More time to wish it go by even faster. Here I am wishing my work days will travel at the speed of light. I dream about it, so much so, it ruins the days I am not even at work. Ruling my days off, casting fake shadows on the rays of light emitting from the blessings I have been given. Wishing those blessing will turn sour like the milk in my fridge because I believe that's all I deserve. Taking for granted the jokes I read on my text threads. Knowing my friends will ride for me, through thick, thin or indifferent, but ultimately stay quiet, not saying a single word. I am not worthy of any of you. Silently I push you away because you'll be better off. The mounting self-importance threatening to turn me narcissistic and selfish, wiping clean my humble, grateful manner like club soda removing blood from a white shirt. Acting as if I'm the best thing on the planet, when in fact, my imperfections are also major part of my character. On the morning of the day of dread, I will every cell in my body to change the clock from 7am to 7pm when I can be back home. Work is turning me into an ogre, gnarling and chasing away the happy times at the end of a bastard day. Constantly tapping me on my shoulder, reminding me what a drastic mistake I have made. And just like that, the universe grants my wish. My grotesque, soul draining days run past me like Linford Christie on the 100m dash. Applicable to every day, every hour, minute and second. Even the times when we spontaneously have lunch and watch a movie, come home, pack up the books in preparation for moving, it's already 11pm.

No. Make the good times run slow, mimicking the maple syrup drip, making spots as I pour it, when glazing bacon for our pancakes. Make me savour the time, like the roast pork you cook with salty, crisp, molar-cracking, crunchy, crackling covering the juicy, tender, pork like a starched blanket. Make it taste sweet, like the creamy, coconut, chocolate, peanut butter vegan ice-cream we can never find anywhere, but love so damn much. Make the laughter slow, watching Drag Race on Netflix, gasping at the shady queens lip-sync for $100,000. Or like the countless times we've told people how we met, when we flew to Taiwan and immersed ourselves in a completely alien culture. How we loved every minute of it, and hated that rancid smell of some cooked animal. To this day I can still smell it when I take dump. Like when you tell me you love me and I'm too blue to see past the clothes I put on to mask my feelings. When I tell you to go back in time and stop my conception, because it's better when the world is cold, dark and evil. The chill hurts and aches. I want more, just to be punished for being alive. Like when you want my weight on top of you, raising the hair on your back, the electricity that shoots up your sides, thrusting the stiffness that makes you shiver and pull me in never to leave. Or the arguments we have when all we want to say to each other is, "Don't go. Stay here. It's safe". Just like when you told me you don't care if I never came out to my parents, you'll still be here regardless.

It's 20:35.

I have to be up at 6am.