The seedy underbelly of Disneyland

By when do we stop growing, and start to decay instead? Its a hill, isn’t it? We’ve scaled the height - calling it the grand scheme of growing up, and now we must do the easier bit - slide down the slope, with our abilities to pause - to hit the brakes, suspended. We’ve crash landed to the bottom, our knees now hurting from the continuous downward climb. We look around and congratulate each other while cheering the ones who are still tumbling down - following us. None of us catches the panic-stricken look each of them wears - their screams muffled by the distance - their bare heels bleeding. Or maybe we do, but our adrenaline blots it out. 

We’re here, aren’t we? Our clothes in various forms of disarray - some clawed at, by the shrubbery and thorns - the others, wearing the victorious stains of wet grass and crumbling earth. Our eyes, honed by years and years of practice, do quick once overs - taking stock of how hard the other had to try - handing out side-eyes and compliments in the same breath. There is only so far we can get from the voices in our head; after all - the climb of our lives wasn’t really meant to change us - just our scoreboards. 

I spot familiar faces and immediately turn away. A woman approaches me and I ask her if she has a mirror. Her face relaxes when she spots my bruised garments. Patting a stray hair back into her coiffure, she smiles - Darling, she purrs at me - it doesn’t matter now; it’s only a face, isn’t it? I’ve almost convinced myself to believe her when she holds out a gilded pocket mirror. Our fingers graze and scabs of our wounds drop with regret - like light powder - so dainty in their flight, no naked eye could see it. Only a woman’s, did. 

There is plain land, as far as the eye can see. Still, except for the long chains of human bodies, groaning under the weight of their papier-mache smugness - damp with age - rank with the unmistakable odour of time. There is very little to be distracted by; very little air to breathe - just enough to fill our lungs with, so we can continue to water down the noise from within - with chloroform and lazy appeasements; just enough to be awake, if not alive. 

Our voices climb a new decibel. I watch a demure couple turn around to see why and see their eyes widen, their faces etched with lines and anticipation. Another crowd reaches the foothill, panting and heaving - their backs bending as their run slowly eases into a hobble. The geography changes a little, as we circle around the new entrants - timidly approaching them - in the afterlife, we’re nothing if not porous.

I find myself walking in confusion, looking for someone to placate; to congratulate and to make a friend. The new faces dilute rapidly, replaced by the grainy texture the rest of us wear - feverish, I fasten my pace, not being picky anymore - anyone will do right now. I’ve grown desperate. The only thing left of the sun is its dimming glow - tinging the violet sky with a sombre aftertaste - mood lighting, fit for this party.

I pull my desperation closer around me, warding away the cold. My eyes have weakened and the world looks as bleary as it does, under pouring rain. But I think I see someone - a figure just as forlorn, thick resignation - lining her brows. I know she is disappointed too - like a hopeful traveller who paid for a bad hotel room. I offer her my hand. 

What comes after living, is the shrill sound of an EKG machine flatlining - loudly reminding you that you too have run out like a cheap pencil battery - your body just as cold, and your insides - a jam, of mercurial compound. 

I need her, more than she needs me. Here is the sanitorium of the dead - the bygones, and the disposable. Could I really manage without a chai partner here, for all of eternity?