In Control

 You know what I was thinking when I saw all the bottles were not in places which I had arranged?

Rage. Holding it back. Pausing.

That I had to pause to get a grip of myself.

Sometimes, the burning, bitter taste of rage felt almost shocking (if not refreshing) in my throat, which I never thought I’m capable of such a strong emotion.

I despise it when my stuff is not in their place, exactly like how I arranged it.

I hate it even more when people touch my belongings, which these two happened to be closely related. Sure, there were certain cases I could absolutely tolerate but longer pausing was always required.

Talking about this reminds me of that young man.

We were on a bus, on our way to the main stop for most of us, and because of the sudden halt, most of my books came crashing down to the floor from the seat, which was a few feet away from me. I looked defeatedly at the books, letting out a deep sigh, weighing in if I should go and set them right again, but I didn’t feel like moving.

He stood and moved deliberately toward my books. 

Right before he was able to touch my books, I said almost menacingly,

“Don’t touch it. I’ll do it myself.”

I remember how cold I sounded like. 

I hated myself for acting that way but I was even more ashamed when I caught him smiling, amusingly over my reaction, before he retreated back to his seat. 

I felt stupid over my defensiveness of such random act of kindness. Why I always make it hard for people to be just kind to me?

Maybe because I hate it when people do something nice for me when I am capable of doing it for myself, or maybe because I hate it when I am not in control of things in my control. And maybe because I hate the idea of unpredictability.