Life begins from a plastic beach ball

When you begin to shape your life on anything round, there are only two possibilities: either you are a poet or simply mad. I believe I am the latter. This peculiar obsession stems from my childhood.

One day my father bought me a plastic beach ball, and I simply fell in love with it. You know how balls can be a man’s best friend, both literally and metaphorically. You could apply any force to it, and it would go to the direction you intended. Unless, of course, something obstructs its trajectory. Basic laws of physics, I presume. Time passed and I began to look for more balls. More kinds of round objects, to be exact. Soccer balls, tennis balls, marbles, round Christmas tree ornaments. I had them all. When I saw those balls roll around my house, I felt like a god, albeit an insignificant and temporary one.

However, living with my parents always involves some kind of moving. First, they forced me to move with them. For a male with twenty-three years marked on my identity card and initially zero ambition to be an explorer, I move quite a lot. Right now, I could recall six cities, seven houses and eight schools that have seen me growing and getting old. Next, they forced me to move on from the favorite things I used to play with. For my parents, it was a natural thing to do. “You are an adult now,” said my father by the time of my puberty. He separated me from my balls, and introduced me to a closet of shirts and belts, the usual advertorial package for a supposedly full-grown man. I was twelve years old, but felt twenty years older than I was supposed to be.

Separated from my lovely balls, I found solace in stories. Stories have circular quality too. It begins with a fall, from what the protagonist presumes as an ideal condition, and ends with a rise, to what the protagonist presumes as an alternative ideal condition. In between the two extremes, you practically have all the freedom in the world. You could apply any force to your protagonist, and he or she would go to the direction you intended. Unless, of course, something obstructs his or her trajectory, like illegal longings, unfulfilled desires, and regrets on what could have been. Basic laws of storytelling, I presume. Time passed and I began to invent more stories. More kinds of circular self-contained stories, to be exact. Symmetries are comforting, because they suggest a design where actually there is none. When I see my imaginary protagonists ride off to the sunset with their hard-fought love, I feel like a god, albeit an insignificant and temporary one.

Survivors of the wreck of a childhood, aren’t we all?

—A musing to pass the time, written in between drafts of a POSTCARDS FROM THE ZOO (Edwin, 2012) review. No connection to the film whatsoever. Just intrigued by the circular nature of the film.