finally managed to make my YnM eps work, after extensive (and unnecessary) downloading which resulted in me deleting everything and then fishing out my previously deleted .mpg files of YnM 11 and 12 from the recycle bin. i deleted them cos they didn’t open properly; then i downloaded real player and everything is back to normal. i feel much like an idiot, and louis does not have to remind me further, thanks. anyway i just sent out some funneh quiz thing cos i was so bored – no one save ying can guess my favourite colour! geez. am i that opaque. ….
i am damn pissed. i spent the whole day dling yami no matsuei ep 11 (the most infuriating thing is that half of it got dled in about 10 mins from this guy with a super-fast connection and then i get stuck with dling the other half over what? 7 hours?) and THEN i find out that it has no english subtitling!!! i am so screwed. so i spend today dling yami no matsuei ep 11 and 12 again asdl;ghsjkghdlgh i am pissed. i really want to find out what happens to tsuzuki and since i don’t have the manga on hand i’ll just have to settle for this. BAH. meanwhile ep 13 sits happily at the back of the queue. i am pissedzor.
(and no louis don’t look at me like that btw cos i am using imesh and noooooooo it doesn’t help things!!! -glares at you-)
should i cosplay?
His voice is so thin that he probably wasn’t able to blow out more than three candles at his last birthday party – but that lingering whisper speaks masses about what he’s seen and what he knows, and what I don’t know. He knows what it is to watch your girlfriend sleep and cry because she’s so beautiful. He’s tired of getting drunk and having to disentangle himself from the vodka equations of the past. He’s the quiet man standing in a pool of fluorescent light and pokie machines in the city, trying to deduce the cynical beauty in it all.
He says it’s alright. I wish I could believe him.
“Your notes give me reason to sleep at night,” I tell him. “I’ve been wearing these jeans for the past twenty-four hours. I didn’t want to break anything, you see… I’m scared that if I step out of these clothes, everything will fall down around me and you and in between, and then I won’t be able to see through the subsequent debris haze…”
He doesn’t seem to hear me.
“… And then I wouldn’t understand any more,” I finished.
My cadence is off and hangs in the air like a stage light: forever helpful and hopeful, but tucked into the darkness cast by its own shadow, unnoticed, unseen. It’s its own fault it finds itself in such melancholy, grey surroundings.
I’m looking at his hands in his hair to fill the silence. His fingernails; the precise scar bisecting the careful rounded lines on the pad of his little finger. He bleeds for his art. I’ve seen it happen, and I’ve wiped blood off the fretboard of his guitar many a time. He’s started his downward spiral to where the best of us go: nowhere.
He finally speaks.
“Sometimes I wonder if there’s a daytime to live.” Faint. “And while there probably isn’t – it’s alright. It always is.”
I put my fingers around his wrist, searching for a pulse. After a moment I feel it beneath my palm, quiet and unobtrusive as he ever was.
“I know where you are.”
“Next to you,” I answer. I can’t feel he ground beneath my feet now.
“Dancing in the amber daytime.”
I’m so tired of all this weakness. Amber is the colour of beer and the substance that captured the most iridescent of insects and found itself embedded in the tacky new-age jewellery that began to flood stores thousands of years later.
His own music is silent enough to be captured in such a way, unflailingly. He disappears into the city’s electric amber pools every day, after all, and emerges in the night with the specks of drizzle scarring his shoulders. It’s not that he drowns himself and resurfaces to start anew – it’s that he’s invincible. His bleeding fingertips search the cracks in the pavement, skittering across the loose stones and transcending the wires that crisscross the city. He says he lives on the other side of town, but such exhaustion cannot house itself in one home alone. I more often see him here, on this bench, his thin breath dissolving into the ghosts that populate his songs.
I put my hands over his lips. His words are too warm for their volume – “Leave me hanging,” I ask. “Leave me hanging forever.”
“It’s alright.” There it is – my noose. His sentences don’t end with full stops, rather commas, short breaths that die quickly in the daytime, always leaving you wondering what’s coming next. He takes my hand now.
it is for words like these that i live. if i could write like her i think i’d die of happiness.
green door, potted plants,
white windows: this house is
full of love and clutter.
clutter of books, trinkets, memories
that lie scattered on the
shelves; some hanging by
threads to a forgettable stand.
inside laughter brews:
happiness concocts such a mixture
of joys and pains (yes, some are
happy when in agony) as some
distract themselves for days
from the potency of such drugged bliss.
i wonder vaguely if you
would let me in:
this house has not yet attached
my face to this happiness;
after all it has been seven years,
and the itch is not quite over.
i will probably rewrite this some other day. sounds rather incoherent.
your mum is pissed because you lied about not eating lunch? (you woke up at 2.30 today) the absurdity is in itself fascinating; it also manages to annoy the hell out of you. i mean, not eating lunch? why the hell anyone would care about something as ineffectual as your eating habits is beyond you, especially if it’s because you woke up late. okay, so you didn’t eat lunch, and yes that’s because you woke up late, and yes you told her that you ate already when she called because you woke up only because she called and you were half asleep then and it was easier to tell her you’d eaten already than to say ‘oh i just woke up cos you called me’. you mean, can she be a bit less dense? she doesn’t have to go around acting like it’s the end of the world because you lied about not eating lunch.
oh, and now she suddenly turns around and asks you to wear your retainers, and for once you can tell her that you are wearing them and feeling rather proud of yourself she simply goes you talk differently when you wear your retainers; don’t lie to me, and for half a second you are dumbfounded. you mean, you would know if you talk differently when you wear your retainers, especially if you are wearing them, yes? and while you are talking so differently to her she doesn’t believe you’re wearing retainers.
this is so funny laughing about it doesn’t even begin to do it justice.
(and you would tell that to her face if you thought she’d listen, but she won’t. 10 years of trying to argue with anyone that refuses to listen to anyone but herself tends to make one shut up and take the blame anyway. what’s the use of telling her otherwise, when she won’t listen? not that it gains you anything even if she does believe you; she doesn’t even apologize for being wrong about you. she hates to be told she’s wrong, you know, and so do you; unfortunately someone has to back down, and we all know who that‘s going to be. of course she thinks that when your dad and you keep quiet during scoldings (you can’t even call them arguments, heh) it’s because everyone is guilty, not because no one is bothered to correct an already mind-hardened image. you have a feeling that if she ever reads this she’s going to cry here; do you care? (on another note if there’s one thing you hate about people it’s bloody invasion of privacy and may you tell everyone now that she has read your diary more than once and uses it against you during scoldings. you mean is she stupid or what? who the hell gives her the right to go around snooping around other people’s belongings? because she’s your mother? what sort of half-baked reason is that? you’d tell her to go fuck herself it’s not up to her to tell you what to write about in your diary; if you want to rant about her you bloody well will, whether she likes it and reads it or not, thanks very much) people piss you off, you don’t bother fighting back; you shoot them down in other ways in places they can’t see. you operate on impulse, and you don’t nurse grudges, that’s why you always end up regretting what you say; and if someone’s unlucky enough to piss you off you lash out right then and there, but you don’t let things fester. you write about it somewhere they can’t see, and that’s the end. some people might call that cowardice, but it doesn’t lessen the damage you can do if other people read about it, cowardice or no. be careful of me, you say, i can be very dangerous.)
you have a vague sort of feeling that you’re going to regret saying this at all later on, at least you did it online this time, though. you left it all out here for me to see, didn’t you, she stares accusingly, and you look back with cool indifference in your eyes that spell out everything that doesn’t need to be moulded to fit words: well of course i did, you twit, i don’t write things for nothing when it comes to you, you know?
and she had the audacity to demand you write her a poem. no, she wants something nice, you expect. all those poems about her being a bitch to you simply aren’t going to work. well you can tell her that’s all there is to it. you can’t write anything better because there isn’t anything better. you get mad at her way more often than you get overwhelmed by her outstanding maternal instincts.
well, sorry, you say to her just to keep her quiet, when you aren’t the least bit sorry at all.
eh cool hahahaha i just won some funneh competition organised by singapore poly in the poetry category or sth like that – the prize is 100 bucks! hahahahah i am damn amused cos that was the poem my mentor said i needed alot of rewriting and after i rewrote it she said it was much better or sth like that hahaahaah boggle i am damn amused how come good things seem to be happening alot lately okae this is damn amusing hahahahaha.
okae nvm at least i get one point for all this kindof shit in my cca testimonial – hahaha damn my stupid cca teacher for taking my one attendance point away hahahahaa well i got an achievement point back you stupid bitch SO THERE! HAHA =D
NOW moe comes and tells me that “if your school schedules any tests, exams or other important functions during the week of 2-7 june, permission will not be given for you to be councillor” – wtf? bloody hell i hate this sars shit – it just ruined my entire year and any chance of being anything more than i am already.
aldfghd;fghd;fhg;dufoahg i feel like killing myself. fuck.
they made me a councillor (and i didn’t even apply)
i am astounded and very amused.
someday i will write about reading margaret atwood
and sylvia plath in the middle of the night, alone, while
fiona apple sings that i’ll never have to lie in the
faint background. meanwhile the light from the bathroom is dim
but sure; one cannot erase the voice of certainty that echoes
itself in the little things: the books of poetry on the table,
papers scattered randomly, like stars, flowered cotton bedspreads
and alien ceiling lights, the stopped secondhands of clocks.
it is your birthday, they say, and the table is littered with presents:
blue glitter on a wrapper, earrings, concentric hearts, photoframes,
books, music, poetry. they think you a lover of beautiful things;
it is a shame you love them more than beautiful things love you:
more often than not they do not remember how it is like to have
loved something, or perhaps even someone.
everyone’s currently rejoicing over the fact that school is out till april 6th cos of SARS, but i wonder just how happy they can get when they realise that everything in our lives has just come to a sudden halt just like that. like everything’s disrupted and i don’t know where to start bleh. supposed to have english and physics tests in the next 2 days and now they’re postponed indefinitely and BAH I HATE ELEARNING do you know do you know do you know. …im beginning to wonder if there’s a curfew for staying out in town now.
gah. i hate this. I WANNA GO TO SCHOOL.
on the other hand like neek i am actually thinking about doing work. except that there’s a niggling little voice in my brain that keeps on telling me “what’s the point” but since they’re cutting back the june hols for this i really think i should start revising now. ..
its just another day in paradise
and you stumble to your bed
you’d give anything for silence
those voices running in your head
you thought you could find happiness
just over that green hill
you thought you would be satisfied
but you never will
learn to be still
we’re like sheep without a shepherd
don’t know how to belong
some wander round this desert
when theyre following the wrong gods home
flock cries out for another
they keep answerin’ that bell
one more starry eyed messiah
meets a violent farewell
learn to be still
now the flowers in your garden
they don’t smell so sweet
maybe you’ve forgotten
the heaven lyin’ at your feet
so many contradictions
all these messages we’ve sent
keep asking how do i get out of here
where do i fit in
though the world is torn and shaken
even if your heart is breaking
it’s waiting for you to wake up
and someday you will
learn to be still
just keep on running
keep on running
learn to be still – the eagles
happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me.
happy birthday to me.
today was a shit day. what’s new? every year it’s the same thing; i seem to be cursed or something.
if you are offended by elves and slash, please don’t read this.
i have just read the gapofrohan rpg and i have died laughing. i have decided that thranduil the great will be my new obsession, at least for awhile. god, that icon! that icon! ahhhhh -swoons- i haven’t seen an elf king that regal since …well since elrond who isn’t very kingly anyway -mutters sth about pervy elfkings who go around molesting cough certain seneschals- whee! thranduil! and haldir! this is enough to sustain my elf-obsession for quite awhile at least. who cares about legolas when you’ve got both of them? whee. i wonder if someone could arrange a threesome..
ah well. =p given that almost no one around me shares my obsessive love for haldir i think i shall have to end up writing my own threesome when i have the time and the guts to imagine 3 pretty boys getting it on -cough- in explicit detail. ahem.
haldir lives. =D
cruising these residential sunday
streets in dry august sunlight:
what offends us is
the house in pedantic rows, the planted
sanitary trees, assert
levelness of surface like a rebuke
to the dent in our car door.
no shouting here, or
shatter of glass; nothing more abrupt
than the rational whine of a power mower
cutting a straight swath in the discouraged grass.
but though the driveways neatly
by being even, the roofs all display
the same slant of avoidance to the hot sky,
the smell of spilled oil a faint
sickness lingering in the garages,
a splash of paint on brick surprising as a bruise,
a plastic hose poised in a vicious
coil; even the too-fixed stare of the wide windows
give momentary access to
the landscape behind or under
the future cracks in the plaster
when the houses, capsized, will slide
obliquely into the clay seas, gradual as glaciers
that right now nobody notices.
that is where the city planners
with the insane faces of political conspirators
are scattered over unsurveyed
territories, concealed from each other,
each in his own private blizzard;
guessing directions, they sketch
transitory lines rigid as wooden borders
on a wall in the white vanishing air
tracing the panic of suburb
order in a bland madness of snows.
– margaret atwood
btw i think this poem is damn funneh.
you fit into me
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye
i think everyone’s seen it on neek’s nick o_O so ya. hahahaha its so cute right. and quite painful too i guess. i found it originally in one of those ‘poems to help you out of heartbreak’ rubbishy books that you find sitting randomly on bookstore shelves – and me being curious i went to go check it out and HAHA the first one i see is this. and it stuck, i guess. the rest were too long and too bitter. ah well. =p
oh and it’s by margaret atwood too. yup
‘love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. if you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. wrap it carefully around with hobbies and little luxuries, avoid all entanglements. lock it up safe in the casket of coffin of your selfishness. but in that casket – safe, dark, motionless, airless – it will change. it will not be broken; it will be unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. to love is to be vulnerable.’
c s lewis says the darndest things. =/
bombing for peace is like fucking for virginity, someone spells out in bright orange on a protest signboard, and i am forced to agree.
it is possible to die, virginia woolf says in mrs. dalloway, and perhaps bush might like to take that into consideration when he sends in wave after wave of young, naive soldiers who don’t believe anymore in this war than they believe in child abuse, perhaps. someone told me there were things that meant so much to her she’d be willing to die for them, but nothing meant that much for her to want to kill. war is overrated, i say. nobody remembers that at the end of the day, it is so much scarier if it is your friend, your neighbour, your boyfriend, your husband, your brother, your cousin that is the one getting shipped out to a war he has no idea how to fight. it’s someone else’s friend, neighbour, boyfriend, husband, brother, cousin that you’re killing, and it is even more scary that no one realises that in war, you have to kill people. you don’t just fight them, you have to make sure they’re dead. you have to look people in the face and watch death fill their eyes as they drop to the ground, and that you have to step over them afterwards like you don’t care, because when they’re dead, your country wins.
and what do you gain of it, at the end of the day? nothing, nothing, nothing at all. perhaps all you gain from fighting a war like this is the self-gratification of that idiot-ass leader you sorely regret putting on his plaster throne now. all across america churches preach that this war will be won by the americans because god is on our side, that the iraqis are evil and americans are good, that this war is fully justified. it’s scary because that’s exactly what the iraqis are doing – both sides are using religion to win people over to their cause, but someone has to lose – and when that happens, where will such faith be, then? how can we have such ironic double standards; how can we tell our children that muslims all over the world are fanatics because they call this a ‘holy war’ to justify their killing, when we are equally fanatical in calling this ‘disarmament’, this killing, this carnage, essential to the safety of americans and citizens of the world? does christ not preach that when someone slaps you in the face, turn the other cheek? these are troubled times, and it is not the time to worry about national pride when there are more pressing issues to be resolved. waging a war only invites more terrorism, and truth be told no one can fight a war against terrorism because you cannot see the enemy and you cannot know the enemy. it is obvious that bush has a personal vendetta, because this war isn’t justified in the least, and the scariest thing is that this war will mean nothing at the end of the day if saddam is still alive when bush has decided enough people have died. and for what?
i only hope that at the end of this (when it ends, if at all) the deaths of the soldiers who have died in this war, iraqi or american, will be worth something – or bush is so going down.
sometimes you wonder how e m forster can be so bloody lucid about things that happen nearly a century after his time in 1909. it’s so lucid it’s painful.
it’s weird having to face this now: you wonder if you’re finally going to have to do something about making friends and actually keeping them as friends. it’s not that you’ve consciously tried to drive them away or even drive yourselves apart; perhaps all this while you’ve been unknowingly killing yourself inside simply by just existing. it might be that your friends are finally sick of you after such a long while, or that they’ve finally seen through you for what you are, despite you taking great pains to hide it. you feel like you could just give up now; just let it go and let her go – but somehow you still want to save it, if not to keep her as a friend then at least not to have someone snub you whenever you try to talk to her. but how can you save this friendship when you don’t even know what went wrong; what you did wrong; what you were wrong about, perhaps? perhaps it’s been a painful life for you, but you once told yourself (and a whole host of other people) that you’d never fall to self-indulgence and self-pity again; at this point in time, however, that’s exactly what you’re doing. what the fuck are you trying to do, kill yourself? virginia woolf once said you cannot have peace by avoiding life, and that probably sums up everything i want to tell you. how can you stand here and let her go?
maybe that’s because it’s exactly what you want her to do.
but no more of this self-indulgent crap. no more ‘it’s exactly what you want her to do’; you know it’s just a pathetic justification for what you’re doing, because everyone knows the real reason why you’re doing it anyway. you’re trying to escape this whole thing, this whole year, but it’s not going to work. somehow you have to find it in yourself to take that strength out and use it for once.
ah fuck it. can you stop trying to be eloquent for once and just do it? gah.
(and now my mind is this whole mishmash of thoughts; i can’t think straight or coherently, all my thoughts are coming in pieces and going in circles and i have a feeling i might just explode if i try to think any further. and i don’t really want to touch my work, even though it’s obvious i haven’t touched anything save lit in the past 7 days. it’s worse when all you’ve been hearing about this past week is the flurry over atypical pneumonia or the war in iraq; everything is so depressing and gloomy, you just open your eyes in the morning (if you open them at all) and you read the newspapers and your day just goes to shit. how do you say goodbye to an old and treasured friend, louis asks, and i cannot answer him even though we both know that the answer to that question is that it cannot be answered. everyone seems to be leaving, or dying, or leaving and dying and there’s nothing you can do about it.)
kansas sings in the background that ‘nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky; it slips away, and all your money won’t another minute buy’, and you are forced to admit musicians sing such truths at times.
“i choose not the suffocating anaesthetic of the suburbs but the violent jolt of the capital; that is my choice. i mean to say even the lowest has some say in the matter of her own prescription; thereby she defines her humanity. i wish, for your sake, leonard, that i could be happier in this quietness; but if it is a choice between richmond and death — then i choose death.”
“dear leonard: to look life in the face; always, to look life in the face and to know it for what it is; to love it for what it is; to see it for what it is; and then, to put it away. leonard: always the years between us, always the years; always the love; always, the hours.”
– virginia woolf, the hours
just a random haiku i heard somewhere:
in the ukiyo,
the way of the warrior
will never survive
ukiyo – it means ‘floating world’ in japanese. it is above the mundane world, this world of the geisha, the dancers, the brothels, the wine; it floats above the little things and is entirely hedonistic – a way of life warriors are sworn not to pursue.
a conversation i had not too long ago:
him: are you going for rnj?
me: yeah why
him: which day!
me: i dunno
me: 12th i think
him: but! usually the second one is better
me: -shrug- who cares
him: aiyarh whatever
him: you going with classmates or sth?
there is no answer. i thank god for his kindness.
i don’t know why i feel this big turn-off whenever i see him or whenever he talks to me online or otherwise; perhaps its just because it’s not very nice to keep on seeing the one you broke up with. sense of guilt, perhaps. i find it extremely irritating that he feels somewhat clingy, like he’s still holding on to some hope that we might get back together someday, even though i’ve made it quite clear i want nothing whatsoever to do with him any longer. i don’t rule out that possibility, of course; but i think it’s just highly unlikely. i feel rather stupid now, in fact.
i refuse to elaborate.
just a thought. this is so true:
(excuses my twentysomething colleagues give)
singapore’s so banal and boring
nothing of significance ever happens here
most singaporeans are stupid
this organisation is paying me peanuts
the real reason:
when you’re small the world is huge. the world is larger than your eyes can hold, and rounder: full of surprises as a grape. and when you grow up, get older, taller, wider (i said wider, not wiser), the world shrinks in comparison. your peripheral field of vision is no longer a field of dreams. you hit eighteen or twenty, and realise you’ll never be an astronaut. you hit twenty-five, and realise you’ll never start your own business, hell, you’re so chained down you’ll never move overseas, pull up roots and flee. you hit thirty, and realise you’ll never write the great singaporean novel. you see your dreams diminished, becoming much much smaller than you ever thought they’d be.
that’s why they’re so disillusioned.”
– grace chua
the old lie: dulce et decorum est
pro patria mori.
just watched the pianist yesterday. i watched the horrors of war onscreen and i hate to think another has just started for no good reason at all.
listening to tonight and the rest of my life now. it sounds like a damn ana song btw. anyway i feel happy!!! hahahah cos im gonna celebrate my birthday on saturday whee. looking forward to it – havent had a gathering like that for awhile. ah welll. this should be fun =] lalalalalallala. charmaine is going SOCIAL FISHING hahahahahahah rofl -dies laughing- she says she cant make it but she’ll catch me a nice fish. i dont believe this btw. this is damn funneh. WHEE MY BIRTHDAY IS COMING! rofl ahahhaa. i feel high.
you surely are a truly gifted kid
but you’re only as good as
the last great thing you did
1 march 2003
there are many things nowadays that i do that defy logic: that i have just renounced love at sixteen as a passing fancy, but that i still cannot free myself from romantic trappings. romance is something i cannot control; i dare not call it love because i dare not say what it will bring me. it has come before, to me and to you – separately, perhaps, but it has come all the same. i remember clearly how you ached for her, and your heart was bottled up in your mind, questioning and lonely but too afraid to hide. everyday you would question me on the reliability of my reports about the state of her feelings towards you, and everyday i would tell you the same thing, over and over again: yes, it is true, she does like you. of course it was a delicate business, treading over soft denials and rose-tinted cheeks, blushing with an innocence i never thought you both to possess. it was not easy, let me tell you, to get past both your defences, for the two of you are not so far apart in character: you are strong, and so is she; she is faithful, and so are you; and both of you are so painfully shy.
(as for me: well, we will not talk of me.)
but now this is between me and you, and i hurt myself to say this to you now, because while i say to myself that this will not last, it does not stop my heart from strangling itself whenever you are near. it is not that i like it, my friend; i cannot help it anymore than you can help your heart to beat, only that mine beats far too fast and way too hard for my liking. falling in love is something beautiful, but it comes unexpectedly because you and i know that in each of our hearts we all have feelings for each other (and you could say i love the boy next door as much i do you) but it is only a matter of allowing these emotions to admit themselves to a conscious state of mind that you and i find trouble in denying. i cannot deny that i am falling in love with you, but while my lips say i cannot fall in love with you my mind takes on a life of its own and it tells me that i should have fallen in love with you sooner.
perhaps along the way by some stretch of imagination i have sensed hints of desperation, of liking, perhaps, that you might see me as more than a friend. by some kind of masochistic psychology i have tortured myself with these thoughts that you could be mine, but it has been awhile since i have realised that one person can never be truly someone else’s; you are no one’s but your own. and so i push aside these musings on the possibilities of romance between us, and although (i may imagine) that you might someday love me, you are her life, my friend, and i cannot take this from her. i will not forsake two friendships so strong just to have you as a lover, for both of you are my life. there are things that i know i will not do; even if i have to slash myself and watch blood drip to the floor i will not do it.
this is so unreal that it seems almost beautiful, the picture is perfect for a tragedy: you love her, and she loves you; so where do i fit in?
there will be no place for me until she is gone, and i tell you this because in a relationship there can never be room for three. you must never let there be room for three, because in the end there will be no one left at all. this i tell you from a girl who has gone through the tragedy of three in too many relationships with people; it has ruined her life in more ways than one. i write this to tell you that i am falling in love with you, but this is the end; i will not go more than this. there will be no more letters to you, no more hints. but know that this friend will still be here, and she will be in love with you till you show her otherwise, and you will have a friend who will be waiting for you. and meanwhile the two of you are each others’ lives, and i wish you all the happiness one has to offer.
28 february 2003
i wanted alone-time (which you couldn’t give me) and i needed silence (which you abhorred) and i craved writing (which you disapproved of), and while i found my peace with nothing to say and everything to think about he suffocated and drowned in the silence; each time worrying that you would be left to bear this solitude alone, your heart too full of things to bear the void of sound in the sky.
virginia woolf once said we are all wedge-shaped cores of darkness, and losing all personality, one lost the fret, the hurry, the stir and found only freedom, peace and rest. in the darkness where all things are invisible and light and colour merely a perception, a musical box that went dead after the key wound down; i found this rest, this peace in the void where there are no words – somewhere i could be free to imagine the joys of this burgundy night sky, to reflect upon the ways i could have done this better. in silence i left you drowning in my freedom, twisted and warped in the darkness of silence, when no words passed between us i never knew that i was swimming farther and farther away. i never stopped a moment to reflect and think, that while this silence completed me, it also drew us apart.
i cannot tell myself that i never wanted this to happen, for the truth is: before you i expected it, and while i tried my best to convince you of the truth of my belief that we would someday part; you smiled at me and i forgot all about convincing you. but there are times when smiles alone will not work, and times when there is no choice but to choose separate paths.
it was not that our paths did not meet, instead this highway of love should have extended itself towards eternity (or so you would have liked to believe); but while our roads intertwined themselves i began to find alternatives; there were forked roads every step of the way, and every time i turned left and found more pleasure in straying away into the forests of solitude. but now it is done; these paths are inextricable and no matter what i do now my path will always be tied to yours, and i am always linked to you. i cannot escape from you; nor can you escape from me – you will always be someone’s friend, someone’s brother, someone’s classmate, someone’s boyfriend, and i will see you through them wherever i am.
but now i have chosen to stray far away from you, so far that you cannot see me, and (you say) i will not see you; you do not stray far from the truth. in solitude i am free, and what i prize most is the freedom to think my own thoughts and write my own words in my own time. i am free because i make myself free; i am free because in silence there is no one else besides me who will dream the same way as i do. i am a selfish person, i have been told, and i freely admit it, i am. i think solely of my own comfort and my own needs, and i do not consider at all the effects it has on people. it is precisely for this reason, however, that i leave you now. in all truth i do not need you, and you do not need me as much as you like to think.
so now we have parted ways: it is barely been three months, but i hear you have a new interest. the first time i had an experience of such kind i was fourteen and naïve, i was heartbroken and bitter; but two years does a lot to you, and at sixteen i no longer feel the need or the urge to drown myself in self-pity and lover-hate in order to get over a romanticized friendship. for it was nothing more than that: you wept when i left you, i have been told, but while you remember me i am a memory shelved at the back of your mind, for i am no longer important. it was nothing more than a romantic friendship; we never loved each other.
i now choose to deal with this the same way i have dealt with everything else: alone. in this case there is no one that can help me, and so i save myself or i remain unsaved. it is to books and words and work i turn my time and attention to, to literature and poetry and history, to friendships and happiness and freedom. i have thought about this long and hard and realized (with all clichés attached) that i have no need of a lover, or a boyfriend (as is the term they like to use these days) to tie me down to an anchor i do not wish to have. my mentor once told me i am so much of a free spirit, and that i find beauty in too many things i see and feel the urge to pen it down. i want a lot of things, i think, but there are too many things i wish not to have: emotional binds, fetters, baggage. i am mature for my age, many people have said, but in this maturity comes the realization that i am not mature enough to deal with what people like to call love, but is only infatuation. i want to believe in love, and perhaps i do, but while i believe in the beauty of true love i also know that this love will not happen between you and i while we are fifteen, sixteen, and naïve.
so this is the end, my dear: while we trod down our own paths, further and further away from each other it is a heavy void that hangs between us, the burgundy night sky and its stars, the endless trees and houses and other roads, the silence that divided us in the first place.
(and let us speak of it no more)