Ultralife?

My scooty, or the Chariot of Death, as I like to call it, hadn't been used in about five months now. So, when I was told it will be ridden to get it to the warehouse from where it would be shipped back home, I spent the day trying to make sure the relocation would be hassle-free. From acquiring petrol in a bottle, illegally, might I add, to updating the documentation, I thought I could do it on my own. But, Luni had other plans. She just wouldn't budge. Owing to her age, and the general powerlessness of my body, I couldn't kickstart it. Eventually, I had to ask the security guard to help me out, which he graciously did.

But yeah, asking for help? Sucked. Needing a man for it? I could crawl in a hole. I spent the afternoon feeling helpless and weak. Until I could finally convince myself, it's not about gender identities. Or backgrounds. Or any other categorisation that we as humans feel the need for. It is simply about matching the right skillset to the task at hand. And if that's not me, I need to start being okay with it.

I have always been aggressively uncomfortable with requesting support. It's why I never let my parents teach me as a child. Why I set myself up independently. Why my loved ones hear the story of my struggles instead of accompanying me through it. But, where I'm headed? That is not the place for a misplaced sense of the self. Those who can raise their hand at the right time in front of the right audience will be best positioned to navigate through the life we're stepping into.

It's been an unusual day. Realisations that are as on time as they are late. Bidding farewell to old companions with a new grace. Remembering the fallen and wondering if the surviving are worth the gift of life.

God, I hope we are.