Craving Spice : a simulation out of the general melancholia state or just spices?

Ramen Noodle is the hill i want to die on.

I recently mastered the use of chopstick (i would appreciate if y’all clap, thank you).

I am a usual rain aficionado, but these last 1 week of constant raining has put me in a melancholia state, not to mention my upcoming exams has also made me want to dig a hole in the ground and hide there. these states of feelings is being gratuitously oiled by the rain.

I am not talking about light breeze, i am talking about raining cats and dogs. It’s 12: 34 at noon while i write this essay. Outside, there is not one droplet hanging from the surface of a leaf but a millions of tiny droplets falling from the sky. Trust me, i am as close to fangirling about the rain any day but these days the fangirling is less, stress is more which comes with constant lying on the floor and craving spicy food.

a random dog mirroring my feels from Pinterest

It’s like just like the dog, the sky mourns.

The sky mourns for lives lost, while i crave spice.

The sky mourns for dissipated dreams, while i crave spice.

The sky mourns for Palestinian and Lebanon diaspora while i crave spice.

The sky mourns for hours lost while i heat up water, doing a victory dance because ramen noodles is the hill i want to die on.

The sky howls as another Palestinian school is bombed, another hospital is attacked, while i break off a fresh pair of chopstick ready to divulge the subpar culinary miracle.

My spice buds has taken a toll in this torrent of rain, i have made ramen on a Sunday evening, on a Tuesday afternoon, on Thursday midnights, while a Palestinian child draped in a beautiful piece of pink maxi-dress with dotted daisies can only afford to make cup noodles over a single bed of rock, gaining the heat from the ongoing fires of missiles and rockets while i sit in my room waiting for the kettle to ding.

It’s Saturday and noon, I’ve been up for 2 hours now. i feel lethargic, i want to scroll YouTube shorts and all of a sudden a spice notification comes up. I get up from the floor and skip towards the kettle heating up water, tear off the ramen packet, submerge the thick noodles in a bowl full of hot water, cover it up and work on statistics with exuberant energy. Excited to have ramen on a random Saturday just cause i can, while a Palestinian child cowers under ragged tents made of cheap fabric and watches the world turn their back on them.

The kettle dings as i wear cozy blue mittens and pour the water in my beautiful ceramic bowl; i momentarily remember that a Palestinian child doesn’t need to wear mittens, their hands are already blackened, burnt with the spitefulness of the world and the shame we are too arrogant to hold accountable to ourselves and our country.

I top my ramen with boiled eggs and take an aesthetic picture to post on Instagram while a Palestinian father watches men with their press badge, maliciously take pictures of his dead child, carefully stacked over another layer of dead children.

I turn on my favourite show to fully enjoy myself with the ramen while a Palestinian mothers sees horror unravelling just mere inches away from her.

I enjoy ramen on a rainy day in October as the world celebrates 76 year of brutality on Palestinian ground of Palestinian people.