One time I wanted to be my mother's Chinese bamboo. Sitting in a glass bowl, full of filtered water. Water that is changed every day and my roots cleaned. And shifted from place to place in the house during the day, depending on where the sun fell. From the east in the morning to the west in the afternoon. Sitting quietly, paralytic and observing everyone in the house pass by, busy and breathless, running for school and tuition, out from hot showers and swallowed breakfasts. I envied that plant so much. 

And later, I wanted to be my husband's pet cat. No, my husband doesn't have a cat. Neither is he a cat person. Nor is he a dog person. We're not animal people, at all. But I wish I were his pet pussy cat. Black in color, with white stripes, furry and soft so he would cuddle and squeeze me, every now and then. And hold me in his hands and snuggle. And I would lap milk from my milk bowl sitting on our coffee table in front of the TV or behind our sofa. And I would lazily witness passage of scores and scores of mornings and afternoons and judge the motion of the wind and the shadows of the window grille. Hundreds of thoughts and emotions, in entropy, behind my little black pussy cat poker face. 

The Chinese bamboo, at least existed. But the cat doesn't even. 

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