Day Eight
April 13th, 2008
on many levels i am angry. but on the most basic level, and the one closest to my heart, i am wistful. wistful over everything that has transpired be it good or bad, and wistful over what could have been. like my red curtains, and the lanterns i was going to hang from the ceiling in the middle of the room: things that never happened because like everything else, my wishes just weren’t communicated rightly or taken seriously enough.
what went wrong all boils down to communication and respect. lack of. i remember how i felt when i walked in and saw the grey curtains and how my heart just stopped and spilled all over the wooden floor. what is the word i am looking for? dismissed. a word so often used against me, but always ejaculated with a conviction that smells suspiciously like hypocrisy. irony. the most important things become forgotten and shoveled beneath layer after layer, mound after mound of flimsy defenses and self-righteous pride. how can you say you love someone when you are so much more in love with yourself?
pebbles in shoes come to mind. i have forgotten how to speak, i have forgotten how to be happy. reprieves come often enough, but i’m taken away from them by the call of duty and guilt, mixed together into a love potion. nothing complements each other, nothing feels perfect; it’s always either or, compromise, win some lose some. we give in all at the wrong times, and so we collapse together, recklessly and without any tenderness.
i feel deprived. starved, somehow. repressed. oppressed. sad. lonely. disappointed. furious. cold. contemptuous. on one hand, what was i thinking? on the other hand, there were all those laughs and all those mornings - those sweet mornings with the kisses and the cologne and the space invading. brushing teeth. making fun. siew long pau. pooch. the airport express. cold cinemas. you see? you see what i’m doing? why am i doing this? this is so fucking irrelevant. and you know what else? Ocean’s Thirteen was fucking balls anyway.
Entry Filed under: Musings, Unsent Letters
