(no subject)
Here's some stuff I wrote for an RP journal. It's bits and pieces of different journal entries and kind of random, but... yes.
Fandom: Original/RPF (haha sob :[)
Word Count: 4,350
Rating: PG-ish
There is something about being in a state of complete exhaustion that feels like a clash between opposites. Calm and nervousness, tranquility and hostility, clarity and confusion all at once. My eyelids weigh especially heavily as I tried to collect my thoughts, struggling to keep everything around me intact when one slight mistake will send everything out of orbit. At my age, in the prime of youth, the world is my oyster. How is one supposed to take advantage of this archaic proverb when the oyster harvester is not fully knowledgable about the prey? The intake of oxygen becomes more difficult by the second, but from hyperventilation than exhilarating breathlessness. The mind is dizzied and the heart races, now from something entirely different than before. These symptoms are familiar, and the feelings are clearly recognisable from miles away. Yet, they will always succeed in capturing us in a stage of shock, and there is no way of fighting off their haunting. We as humans evolve through time, biologically as a group and psychologically as an individual during our minisculy small lifetime. We learn from our mistakes, as they always say, and yet some histories repeat themselves infinitely, until it all spirals out of control. How developed are we, really, and how developed do we have to be in order to understand how to learn from ourselves properly? I suppose this is one of the many, many unanswered mysteries of the universe. It is never meant to be known, and just when we think we have it all figured out, we meet head-on with something that will prove us abysmally wrong.
-
Naiveté becomes me when suitable, and along with it its negatively connotative glory. I’ve been blindsided by deception, but it’s ridiculous to think no one has. False friendships, false illusions of achievements, false convictions, and so many other general falsities have undoubtedly wandered into life one time or another. It eventually gets to a point where we become immune to everything, to the point of disillusionment and losing our innocence. The brick wall replaces the carefree stance we have when we are young. Since that moment, we are so afraid of meeting someone who may have an inkling of possibility of shattering the shield, good intentions aside, and therefore shattering our false reality. Yet, secretly, unconsciously, I believe that we do so endlessly crave for this sentient creature’s arrival, and are constantly on the lookout for the one who may be, well, the one. I have to restrain myself just now from saying this being is “destined” to save us from our locked towers. Destiny is such mythological trickery.
Protection is what we clandestinely desire. Scars may be a clichéd and overused metaphor, but our mentalities do often relate to physical visuals more than emotional ones that remain unseen. Stumbling and falling and scraping and bleeding and hurting and bruising are unavoidable. Tending to a wound with antiseptics may sting for brief moments, but the end justifies the mean. Slapping a bandage seems to be the step specialised by most, even though it is also one taken too carelessly more often than not. As the last procedure of the treatment, the application is usually accomplished haphazardly. Herein lies the danger. If the bandage is too loose, it will easily fall off and defeats its own purpose of protection. If it is too tight, the rawness of the wound will not be allowed to breathe and heal, infections may grow from within, and what results is a bloodied bandage. The art of applying this protection against the elements is so delicate and difficult to master. Even if the bandage is used properly, the urge to pick at a newly formed scab can be hard to repress. All part of our secretly masochistic tendency, I suppose.
-
When I was much, much younger, my brother said that the sky was blue because he's painted it so. It was October, or perhaps November, when the days still alternated between sunny and otherwise. The next day was the latter, overcast and covered by ominous rainclouds, imposing upon the city a gray hue which refused to dissipate. I jabbed a finger into my brother's rib, possibly more ticklish to him than pain-inducing, and asked him why he's changed his mind and painted it gray. My endless crying and screaming and pulling and poking made it clear that I did not like it, not one bit. In retaliation, I took his biscuit during snacktime. I ran out to the lawn, one hand clenching my stolen treat and paintbrush in the other. Munching eagerly, but in small bites, I reached up my arm as close to the heavens as it would go, trying to press the brush's clear-blue-covered hairs up to the gloomy clouds. The sky remained a saturated colour of grays, whites, and blacks. My plan did not work, and I plodded slowly back into the house, desperate for a glass of milk after finishing the sweet biscuit. It rained the next day. And the day after. And the one after that.
There are two times of the day that are my absolute favourites. First, early morning, perhaps about eight o'clock. The sun has risen and the birds are singing all around. Toast in one hand and orange juice in the other as the telly chatters on about the daily forecast or dreaded traffic warnings. The perfect mornings are those with a slight breeze, cool enough to feel freshened but not cold enough to require wearing a robe for protection against the elements. The sun shines, but not so brightly that the sky becomes overexposed. Sunbeams bounce lightly off the skin, not unlike the soft touch of a lover's caress from the night before. The air, getting warmer by the second, begins to envelop the body wordlessly. A welcoming hug, as if to say, "Hello, you've survived for another day." A farewell embrace, "Goodbye, the enjoyable evening has ended." Stepping back into the shelter, the routine is resumed. Work, school, errands, or simply sitting there, waiting for the second favourite time of day: late evening. Ten, eleven, midnight. Crickets now softly replacing the cheerful birds, the moon in place of the sun, and the blues and whites turn into a blanket of blacks. The cold air is overlooked by the permeating heat established from skin to skin, touch piercing through beyond the surface and imprinting onto the soul. Low temperatures never had a chance. Every inch of my body eagerly awaits its turn to be embraced by this special sort of warmth. Reciprocation, of course, as always, is key.
The last sentence he's ever said to me was, "I can never love you. Not like that." Without so much of an explanation or apology, he walked out of my life. Ironically, my respect for him oddly remained, because of the very lack of afterthought. Explanations are nothing but excuses, meaningless nothings. Good try, sorry, but no. Apologies are empty promises. No, you're not sorry. Not really. We've ended as soon as we've begun. No, it wasn't my first heartbreak. My first heartbreak occurred six months prior, when No-Apology Boy's lips first found my own after an exhaustingly good football match. You know that perfect, life-shattering, earth-moving first kiss? That was it. So perfect, in fact, that not only my life shattered, but as did my heart, into those clichéd millions of pieces, fluttering into oblivion. It was performed in flawless execution. No sloppiness, no collision, no weird hand placements. So flawlessly beautiful that within the mere seconds, the relationship in its entirety has been created by the inner workings of my mind, down to every touch, every slap, every glance, every glare, every intentionally-ignored call, every kiss, every poisonously painful word, every I Love You. The only thing lacking in that three-second forever was just that: forever. The perfect, flawless, breathtakingly beautiful moment will never be immortalised, never become a forever. "I can never love you. Not like that." That was my line. And he thought he was so original. He's only become my six-month-old echo.
That was a rainy day. A March day. Six months ago was September, also rainy. How I've longed for my magical paintbrush.
-
Him.
Him, him, him. No one else, nothing else, but him. Isn't that quite pathetic? There is literally nothing else on my mind, and hasn't been for months. There's just him, and only him. His eyes, his smile, his lips, his neck, his arms, his hands, his chest, his stomach, his hips, his... God. I'm just completely consumed by him, every part of me. I hate being like this. I love being like this. He makes me love love and hate hate. His skin burns fiercely onto mine despite all the tenderness in his touch. My breath shallows as I feel his on me. He has absolute control over me, no matter how much he denies it or if he pretends to be in oblivion.
His voice commands me without actually saying the needed words. His gaze captivates me and in his eyes I see the world. His cooking, his foods, his pasta, his chili, his whisky are never enough for my greediness. His ridiculous remarks, in all their outrageousness, no matter how awful, strangely leave me craving for more. My brick wall, the giant shield against my heart comes undone when I'm with him. He didn't even have to try and break it down; the gates welcome him readily. I detest it. Logic and rationality tell me so. My heart and soul immediately take the opposite stance, effectively playing angel and devil. He's both. Both are on his side. I never had a chance.
Two weeks here allowed me to know his flat better than I know my own home. The half-emptiness feels strangely cosy. The sofa stays next to the the coffee table, on which there glass rings from whisky indulgences are formed. The kitchen in the next room, miraculously still standing after numerous culinary experiments in recent history, provides nutrition for the body and the mind. The bathroom smells like his aftershave, the scent occupying the air harmoniously with my newly-introduced floral shampoo. The bedroom. There are no words. It smells like him. And me. Us. I've left my imprint on his bed. The mattress is a bit firm for my liking, but sleep overcomes me easily as I settle in his embrace. There is nowhere else I would rather be. Nowhere else better to be. Nowhere else I could be.
He is my home.
-
The hustle and bustle of a busy airport makes for a good environment for people-watching. Most of the time, though, I'd much rather hide in a big hoodie in the corner of the waiting lounge, headphones covering my ears and eyes closing for a quick nap while waiting the hopefully-short hours for the flight. Luck has very much been on my side this go around and I was able to escape the dreadful place on-time as scheduled. The introvertedness worked wonders as I made my way to the seat, simply because I couldn't be bothered to think of a drink to request or to receive a bag of peanuts. I've always heard of people meeting interesting characters in the seats next to them, but that has never, ever, happened to me. Being stuck in the middle seat, I had two chances to make a connection. On my left was someone whom I think I already know quite well, and the bonding was done with me merely resting my head on his shoulder. On the right was an older lady, probably in her fifties, intently reading the latest gardening magazine. Her reading glasses was slipping slowly off the ridge of her nose as her reading light remained turned on, still mesmerised by the tulips and lilies and gardenias peppering the pages. I was trying to decide whether or not to start a conversation about how to see if the soil is ready for some spring planting when I figured that flowers and green plants are probably more interesting than I am. The many roses and orchids are more colourful, anyway. Maybe she saw me staring at her with interest, because she then glanced over in my direction and smiled a rather kind smile, instead of the usual "what are you looking at" glare from most people. I smiled back, took a sip from his cup of water because I couldn't be arsed to get my own, and fell asleep promptly before the aeroplane ever left the ground.
-
The dark exterior complete with tiny pieces of chocolate shavings is enough to entice me the very first moment I see it. The bits of snowlike fluffiness from the whipped cream balance out the somewhat-harshness of the chocolate texture. I can already feel the semi-sweetness of the brightly coloured cherries on my tastebuds as my fork delves delicately into the picturesque piece of this decadence. The desire begins to rise from my heart to my mouth and eventually clouding my mind, ready to burst at any minute. The gratifying sensation is almost too much to handle as I take in the first bite, the exhilarating bliss taking over the animal-like desire. A part of me wants to wolf down the rest to satiate my hunger, but another tries to regain control, cherishing and savouring the remaining amount. Self-control pays off as that first tingle of rum lingers on my tongue, causing me to lick my lips involuntarily. The alcohol, no matter how little the amount, burns lightly on my chapped lips. Every bite builds up in anticipation for the next as the intensity of sweetness slowly crescendos. As the very last bite is taken, satisfaction of a quenched craving coexists with longing as I suddenly realise that I must wait patiently until the next slice of indulgence is served. You're the Black Forest gateau to my chocolate brownie, cherries and walnuts and all that in-between.
-
The sweetness of the candy floss angel cake is almost too much to take as the sugariness catches me unawares. The colourful icing sticks onto my fingers, making me want to delicately lick the sugars off my skin. There is a fleeting moment when the taste becomes too much and I'm tempted to put it aside for another day. Everytime I set down the piece of heaven, my tongue begins to miss it despite having had enough. There can never be enough. The addiction to this sugar is different than that of chocolate. Angels and devils are tempting just the same, one pure as sin and the other sinful as purity. It's mad how this little slice of purity can make one feel playfully guilty. The flavour lingers long after the last bite is taken, minuscule crystals of sugar remaining on the lips.
His fingers find their way to his mouth as the bits of icing flake off of his slice. My eyes follow their journey as I see his lips part slightly to allow for a taste of saccharine. A small smile forms on my face, envious of both his lips and fingers for the movements taken for granted. Sitting cross-legged on the sofa next to him, my own fingers peel off a tiny crumble of my slice and deliver it to my mouth, the tip of my tongue touching the suddenly-sensitive tips of my fingers. A deep inhale from the giddiness of feeling his eyes on me allows me to breathe in both the aroma of the fresh dessert and the scent of him. All my culinary experiments, no matter how miserably failed, are treated as ambrosia by him. Angels and devils, purity and sin, crisply-burnt icing and silky-smooth marzipan are all but a functioning juxtaposition.
Hey, I miss you.
-
The hardest part besides the lack of him is to resist the tremendous urge of crawling back. I feel as if I need to be tied down in order to keep myself from taking the next train out. Making a home in a new place is always hard, especially when my heart is still left elsewhere. The bed is as comfortable as can be and the company in the form of a sweet and adoring flatmate should be enough to help the transition just a bit, but they sadly are not with no one's fault but my own. The empty cavity where my heart would've been still aches, but my mind tells me this is for the best. Since my heart is gone, I'd have to listen to and trust my mind unquestionably and completely.
Words have been said, doors have been slammed, bags have been packed. The way I'm behaving, this calm and collected appearance, is not too much of a front. And that scares me. Shouldn't I be devastated and crying myself to sleep every night? I've been reduced to nothing but a child as I cuddle one of the many, many teddy bears the aforementioned flatmate has tolerated in his flat, just for me. Maybe we're all just children in the end, with all our confidence shattered and ourselves with nothing more left than insecurities, frightened by uncertainties. Not sure, dunno, maybe, perhaps, someday. Definitives become too harsh but uncertainties aren't exactly welcomed anymore.
Maybe my age has something to do with it. My concept of happily ever after is certainly different than his. Forever can be so fickle. It can last for decades or cut a lifetime short in just a split second. Our forever ended as soon as it's started. He's never known any of this, of course. No one did, not even myself depending on the time of day. There is an experiment I used to do. Everytime I see him, I'd think of "forever." Sometimes the thought results in a secret smile, sometimes in a frown. When the frequency of the latter overwhelms the former, something is wrong. Or maybe I'm not meant to even consider that word, ever, not even for a slight moment. I've learnt my lesson.
The last kiss is as different than the first as it possibly could have been. The flirtation and teasing of the first kiss disappeared as our lips met for one last time. Mine trembled subtly as his fingertips grazed my cheeks, sending my nerves tingling with anxiety rather than anticipation. It was understood what this would signify. I needed it as much as he did as we felt the mutual push between our lips. It wasn't enough, but I didn't dare ask for more. It wasn't the right time. I have never been one to believe in fate and destiny and timing, but something just isn't right, and the mystique nature is just much easier to blame than humanly mistakes. The romantics of a breeze blowing through my hair and tear rolling down the cheek didn't appear, perhaps because my well has run dry. Reality sets in, and nothing could've been more real.
Maybe, just maybe, this isn't goodbye. Maybe it is merely a see you later. I don't dare raise any hope.
-
There is a no take-back policy on the art of intangible gift-giving. If my heart has been long gone, how would I be expected to survive any longer? My anatomical heart feels like it's gone along with my emotional one as I fail to breathe, blood is no longer being oxygenated and pumped through my veins. The only thing that's preventing me from spilling the litres of sanguine substance is the sanity (or the lack thereof) of the flatmate as well as some close mates. Do hearts grow on tress? If so, is it harvest time yet? I'm not interested in taking back my old one because once I give it out, I don't expect it to be returned. This reminds me of Wham!, and that is not good at all. Maybe I'll just draw a realistically-shaped heart on a yellow Post-it and permanently stick it on the left side of my chest.
-
After questioning the existence of my heart in the last episode, it can now be proven that I did indeed either regain it or obtain a brand new specimen. Either the mechanism of this new heart is somewhat incorrect, or it actually skips a beat whenever I see him. Sometimes this physical visualisation isn't even necessary as it does the same thing when I merely think about him. My brain immediately malfunctions at this sign of activity as caution signals began to appear, warning me to reduce speed. Too soon, too fast, too dangerous. I'm young enough to live my life on the edge, but there is a difference between taking a small risk once in a while and driving straight off a cliff at top speed.
I'm terrified that I'm losing control. The thought of acting upon impulse itself is frightening enough, let alone the process and consequences too. This is different, but all too similar at the same time. The warnings are far too familiar for my liking and this time, I may actually take in the advice. Slow down, take a deep breath. It wouldn't help too much, but here's to hoping the delay would be somewhat beneficial in the long run.
The feeling of restlessness is almost too much to take. Yes, no, or the dreaded maybe. I might've done something stupid, but I wouldn't know. Science and maths were never my strong suits, but I do crave for definite answers as often as I could receive them. Uncertainty intimidates me even more than rejection, it seems. Questioning myself is now a constant exercise, distracted only by the loveliness of a certain someone. I'm dangerous when left unattended. I'm needy and clingy and dependent on others, and I hope that's okay with him.
-
Yesterday, the first thing I did when I woke up was to barge into the flatmate's room. Despite his semi-unkempt state, I chose to ignore it and all I could say was, "can you believe it's been an entire month???" I don't remember the exact move in date, but time flies when you're having fun and not a care in the world. A month ago, I was probably at my lowest point, and I'm happy to report that once you've hit rock bottom, there's nowhere else to go but up. I suppose this past month has proven that adage to be correct, indeed. From Paris to London to Orlando and back to London, while playing host and hostess to countless visitors, life is certainly on the incline. I'm careful to keep this climb under control, though, so that it doesn't hit the ceiling just yet. Let's hope it never does, but that may be wishful thinking.
The little moments that are oh-so-important to me are definitely there. The ridiculousness of making up mythological rum ice cream trees, the midnight snack runs to satisfy my pseudo-pregnancy cravings, the cat actually getting along swimmingly with the dog, the randomly-hidden coloured eggs which are then traded in for creme eggs. When I first suggested the idea of sharing living quarters, I didn't expect him to say yes at all. The respond I was expecting was a variation of, "Erm, huh? Are you drunk?" It was an impulsive decision on my part, and even moreso on his, I suppose. After a month, though, I can safely say that I do not regret it at all. He may, though, when he realises that he could've been without the most annoying girl on the face of the planet as a flatmate. He just hasn't gotten to that point yet.
-
There are nights lately when I just find myself lying on the bed, sleepless. It isn't even because I was upset or stressed, I just can't fall asleep for some unknown reason. My eyes would close and my body would be completely exhausted, but I would just remain awake no matter what. I understand that some people are insomniacs by nature, and others simply cannot shut their minds at the proper time at night. Neither is a problem for me, I don't think, and now I still haven't a clue why I find myself wide-eyed at three or four or five in the morning. Hours and hours were spent watching telly or tidying up empty bottles or simply staring out the window into the street peppered with streetlights. My favourite way to waste time, though, is to just snuggle against him and watch him sleep, matching my own breathing with his. Sometimes I can tell that he's dreaming, and I would wonder what kind of dream he has, what he's seeing and experiencing. If he was having a happy dream, I'd want to share that joy with him. If he was having a terrible nightmare, I'd want to protect him from the monsters in it, just like he does for me in real life. It's fascinating, seeing him next to me, deep in his sleep, with the pale beams from the sunrise shining in and highlighting his face. This is slightly creepy, and very sappy, but yes. This is what I do when I can't sleep, it's fun.
-
Last time I've talked about "forever" was so long ago that there might be an unspoken fear or somesuch about that word and that concept. We don't talk about it, not the exact word anyway. Neither of us have to speak about it and yet somehow, in a way, we understand. I love that feeling. I love being in love. I love love, and I love him. It's absolutely insane how little things he'd say can make me burst with happiness. I don't know if he even realises this, I think he does. He means every single thing he says and that just makes me even more speechless than I usually am. He thinks I make it so simple but the truth is, falling in love and being in love with him is so natural that I just can't imagine living my life any other way.
Fandom: Original/RPF (haha sob :[)
Word Count: 4,350
Rating: PG-ish
There is something about being in a state of complete exhaustion that feels like a clash between opposites. Calm and nervousness, tranquility and hostility, clarity and confusion all at once. My eyelids weigh especially heavily as I tried to collect my thoughts, struggling to keep everything around me intact when one slight mistake will send everything out of orbit. At my age, in the prime of youth, the world is my oyster. How is one supposed to take advantage of this archaic proverb when the oyster harvester is not fully knowledgable about the prey? The intake of oxygen becomes more difficult by the second, but from hyperventilation than exhilarating breathlessness. The mind is dizzied and the heart races, now from something entirely different than before. These symptoms are familiar, and the feelings are clearly recognisable from miles away. Yet, they will always succeed in capturing us in a stage of shock, and there is no way of fighting off their haunting. We as humans evolve through time, biologically as a group and psychologically as an individual during our minisculy small lifetime. We learn from our mistakes, as they always say, and yet some histories repeat themselves infinitely, until it all spirals out of control. How developed are we, really, and how developed do we have to be in order to understand how to learn from ourselves properly? I suppose this is one of the many, many unanswered mysteries of the universe. It is never meant to be known, and just when we think we have it all figured out, we meet head-on with something that will prove us abysmally wrong.
-
Naiveté becomes me when suitable, and along with it its negatively connotative glory. I’ve been blindsided by deception, but it’s ridiculous to think no one has. False friendships, false illusions of achievements, false convictions, and so many other general falsities have undoubtedly wandered into life one time or another. It eventually gets to a point where we become immune to everything, to the point of disillusionment and losing our innocence. The brick wall replaces the carefree stance we have when we are young. Since that moment, we are so afraid of meeting someone who may have an inkling of possibility of shattering the shield, good intentions aside, and therefore shattering our false reality. Yet, secretly, unconsciously, I believe that we do so endlessly crave for this sentient creature’s arrival, and are constantly on the lookout for the one who may be, well, the one. I have to restrain myself just now from saying this being is “destined” to save us from our locked towers. Destiny is such mythological trickery.
Protection is what we clandestinely desire. Scars may be a clichéd and overused metaphor, but our mentalities do often relate to physical visuals more than emotional ones that remain unseen. Stumbling and falling and scraping and bleeding and hurting and bruising are unavoidable. Tending to a wound with antiseptics may sting for brief moments, but the end justifies the mean. Slapping a bandage seems to be the step specialised by most, even though it is also one taken too carelessly more often than not. As the last procedure of the treatment, the application is usually accomplished haphazardly. Herein lies the danger. If the bandage is too loose, it will easily fall off and defeats its own purpose of protection. If it is too tight, the rawness of the wound will not be allowed to breathe and heal, infections may grow from within, and what results is a bloodied bandage. The art of applying this protection against the elements is so delicate and difficult to master. Even if the bandage is used properly, the urge to pick at a newly formed scab can be hard to repress. All part of our secretly masochistic tendency, I suppose.
-
When I was much, much younger, my brother said that the sky was blue because he's painted it so. It was October, or perhaps November, when the days still alternated between sunny and otherwise. The next day was the latter, overcast and covered by ominous rainclouds, imposing upon the city a gray hue which refused to dissipate. I jabbed a finger into my brother's rib, possibly more ticklish to him than pain-inducing, and asked him why he's changed his mind and painted it gray. My endless crying and screaming and pulling and poking made it clear that I did not like it, not one bit. In retaliation, I took his biscuit during snacktime. I ran out to the lawn, one hand clenching my stolen treat and paintbrush in the other. Munching eagerly, but in small bites, I reached up my arm as close to the heavens as it would go, trying to press the brush's clear-blue-covered hairs up to the gloomy clouds. The sky remained a saturated colour of grays, whites, and blacks. My plan did not work, and I plodded slowly back into the house, desperate for a glass of milk after finishing the sweet biscuit. It rained the next day. And the day after. And the one after that.
There are two times of the day that are my absolute favourites. First, early morning, perhaps about eight o'clock. The sun has risen and the birds are singing all around. Toast in one hand and orange juice in the other as the telly chatters on about the daily forecast or dreaded traffic warnings. The perfect mornings are those with a slight breeze, cool enough to feel freshened but not cold enough to require wearing a robe for protection against the elements. The sun shines, but not so brightly that the sky becomes overexposed. Sunbeams bounce lightly off the skin, not unlike the soft touch of a lover's caress from the night before. The air, getting warmer by the second, begins to envelop the body wordlessly. A welcoming hug, as if to say, "Hello, you've survived for another day." A farewell embrace, "Goodbye, the enjoyable evening has ended." Stepping back into the shelter, the routine is resumed. Work, school, errands, or simply sitting there, waiting for the second favourite time of day: late evening. Ten, eleven, midnight. Crickets now softly replacing the cheerful birds, the moon in place of the sun, and the blues and whites turn into a blanket of blacks. The cold air is overlooked by the permeating heat established from skin to skin, touch piercing through beyond the surface and imprinting onto the soul. Low temperatures never had a chance. Every inch of my body eagerly awaits its turn to be embraced by this special sort of warmth. Reciprocation, of course, as always, is key.
The last sentence he's ever said to me was, "I can never love you. Not like that." Without so much of an explanation or apology, he walked out of my life. Ironically, my respect for him oddly remained, because of the very lack of afterthought. Explanations are nothing but excuses, meaningless nothings. Good try, sorry, but no. Apologies are empty promises. No, you're not sorry. Not really. We've ended as soon as we've begun. No, it wasn't my first heartbreak. My first heartbreak occurred six months prior, when No-Apology Boy's lips first found my own after an exhaustingly good football match. You know that perfect, life-shattering, earth-moving first kiss? That was it. So perfect, in fact, that not only my life shattered, but as did my heart, into those clichéd millions of pieces, fluttering into oblivion. It was performed in flawless execution. No sloppiness, no collision, no weird hand placements. So flawlessly beautiful that within the mere seconds, the relationship in its entirety has been created by the inner workings of my mind, down to every touch, every slap, every glance, every glare, every intentionally-ignored call, every kiss, every poisonously painful word, every I Love You. The only thing lacking in that three-second forever was just that: forever. The perfect, flawless, breathtakingly beautiful moment will never be immortalised, never become a forever. "I can never love you. Not like that." That was my line. And he thought he was so original. He's only become my six-month-old echo.
That was a rainy day. A March day. Six months ago was September, also rainy. How I've longed for my magical paintbrush.
-
Him.
Him, him, him. No one else, nothing else, but him. Isn't that quite pathetic? There is literally nothing else on my mind, and hasn't been for months. There's just him, and only him. His eyes, his smile, his lips, his neck, his arms, his hands, his chest, his stomach, his hips, his... God. I'm just completely consumed by him, every part of me. I hate being like this. I love being like this. He makes me love love and hate hate. His skin burns fiercely onto mine despite all the tenderness in his touch. My breath shallows as I feel his on me. He has absolute control over me, no matter how much he denies it or if he pretends to be in oblivion.
His voice commands me without actually saying the needed words. His gaze captivates me and in his eyes I see the world. His cooking, his foods, his pasta, his chili, his whisky are never enough for my greediness. His ridiculous remarks, in all their outrageousness, no matter how awful, strangely leave me craving for more. My brick wall, the giant shield against my heart comes undone when I'm with him. He didn't even have to try and break it down; the gates welcome him readily. I detest it. Logic and rationality tell me so. My heart and soul immediately take the opposite stance, effectively playing angel and devil. He's both. Both are on his side. I never had a chance.
Two weeks here allowed me to know his flat better than I know my own home. The half-emptiness feels strangely cosy. The sofa stays next to the the coffee table, on which there glass rings from whisky indulgences are formed. The kitchen in the next room, miraculously still standing after numerous culinary experiments in recent history, provides nutrition for the body and the mind. The bathroom smells like his aftershave, the scent occupying the air harmoniously with my newly-introduced floral shampoo. The bedroom. There are no words. It smells like him. And me. Us. I've left my imprint on his bed. The mattress is a bit firm for my liking, but sleep overcomes me easily as I settle in his embrace. There is nowhere else I would rather be. Nowhere else better to be. Nowhere else I could be.
He is my home.
-
The hustle and bustle of a busy airport makes for a good environment for people-watching. Most of the time, though, I'd much rather hide in a big hoodie in the corner of the waiting lounge, headphones covering my ears and eyes closing for a quick nap while waiting the hopefully-short hours for the flight. Luck has very much been on my side this go around and I was able to escape the dreadful place on-time as scheduled. The introvertedness worked wonders as I made my way to the seat, simply because I couldn't be bothered to think of a drink to request or to receive a bag of peanuts. I've always heard of people meeting interesting characters in the seats next to them, but that has never, ever, happened to me. Being stuck in the middle seat, I had two chances to make a connection. On my left was someone whom I think I already know quite well, and the bonding was done with me merely resting my head on his shoulder. On the right was an older lady, probably in her fifties, intently reading the latest gardening magazine. Her reading glasses was slipping slowly off the ridge of her nose as her reading light remained turned on, still mesmerised by the tulips and lilies and gardenias peppering the pages. I was trying to decide whether or not to start a conversation about how to see if the soil is ready for some spring planting when I figured that flowers and green plants are probably more interesting than I am. The many roses and orchids are more colourful, anyway. Maybe she saw me staring at her with interest, because she then glanced over in my direction and smiled a rather kind smile, instead of the usual "what are you looking at" glare from most people. I smiled back, took a sip from his cup of water because I couldn't be arsed to get my own, and fell asleep promptly before the aeroplane ever left the ground.
-
The dark exterior complete with tiny pieces of chocolate shavings is enough to entice me the very first moment I see it. The bits of snowlike fluffiness from the whipped cream balance out the somewhat-harshness of the chocolate texture. I can already feel the semi-sweetness of the brightly coloured cherries on my tastebuds as my fork delves delicately into the picturesque piece of this decadence. The desire begins to rise from my heart to my mouth and eventually clouding my mind, ready to burst at any minute. The gratifying sensation is almost too much to handle as I take in the first bite, the exhilarating bliss taking over the animal-like desire. A part of me wants to wolf down the rest to satiate my hunger, but another tries to regain control, cherishing and savouring the remaining amount. Self-control pays off as that first tingle of rum lingers on my tongue, causing me to lick my lips involuntarily. The alcohol, no matter how little the amount, burns lightly on my chapped lips. Every bite builds up in anticipation for the next as the intensity of sweetness slowly crescendos. As the very last bite is taken, satisfaction of a quenched craving coexists with longing as I suddenly realise that I must wait patiently until the next slice of indulgence is served. You're the Black Forest gateau to my chocolate brownie, cherries and walnuts and all that in-between.
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The sweetness of the candy floss angel cake is almost too much to take as the sugariness catches me unawares. The colourful icing sticks onto my fingers, making me want to delicately lick the sugars off my skin. There is a fleeting moment when the taste becomes too much and I'm tempted to put it aside for another day. Everytime I set down the piece of heaven, my tongue begins to miss it despite having had enough. There can never be enough. The addiction to this sugar is different than that of chocolate. Angels and devils are tempting just the same, one pure as sin and the other sinful as purity. It's mad how this little slice of purity can make one feel playfully guilty. The flavour lingers long after the last bite is taken, minuscule crystals of sugar remaining on the lips.
His fingers find their way to his mouth as the bits of icing flake off of his slice. My eyes follow their journey as I see his lips part slightly to allow for a taste of saccharine. A small smile forms on my face, envious of both his lips and fingers for the movements taken for granted. Sitting cross-legged on the sofa next to him, my own fingers peel off a tiny crumble of my slice and deliver it to my mouth, the tip of my tongue touching the suddenly-sensitive tips of my fingers. A deep inhale from the giddiness of feeling his eyes on me allows me to breathe in both the aroma of the fresh dessert and the scent of him. All my culinary experiments, no matter how miserably failed, are treated as ambrosia by him. Angels and devils, purity and sin, crisply-burnt icing and silky-smooth marzipan are all but a functioning juxtaposition.
Hey, I miss you.
-
The hardest part besides the lack of him is to resist the tremendous urge of crawling back. I feel as if I need to be tied down in order to keep myself from taking the next train out. Making a home in a new place is always hard, especially when my heart is still left elsewhere. The bed is as comfortable as can be and the company in the form of a sweet and adoring flatmate should be enough to help the transition just a bit, but they sadly are not with no one's fault but my own. The empty cavity where my heart would've been still aches, but my mind tells me this is for the best. Since my heart is gone, I'd have to listen to and trust my mind unquestionably and completely.
Words have been said, doors have been slammed, bags have been packed. The way I'm behaving, this calm and collected appearance, is not too much of a front. And that scares me. Shouldn't I be devastated and crying myself to sleep every night? I've been reduced to nothing but a child as I cuddle one of the many, many teddy bears the aforementioned flatmate has tolerated in his flat, just for me. Maybe we're all just children in the end, with all our confidence shattered and ourselves with nothing more left than insecurities, frightened by uncertainties. Not sure, dunno, maybe, perhaps, someday. Definitives become too harsh but uncertainties aren't exactly welcomed anymore.
Maybe my age has something to do with it. My concept of happily ever after is certainly different than his. Forever can be so fickle. It can last for decades or cut a lifetime short in just a split second. Our forever ended as soon as it's started. He's never known any of this, of course. No one did, not even myself depending on the time of day. There is an experiment I used to do. Everytime I see him, I'd think of "forever." Sometimes the thought results in a secret smile, sometimes in a frown. When the frequency of the latter overwhelms the former, something is wrong. Or maybe I'm not meant to even consider that word, ever, not even for a slight moment. I've learnt my lesson.
The last kiss is as different than the first as it possibly could have been. The flirtation and teasing of the first kiss disappeared as our lips met for one last time. Mine trembled subtly as his fingertips grazed my cheeks, sending my nerves tingling with anxiety rather than anticipation. It was understood what this would signify. I needed it as much as he did as we felt the mutual push between our lips. It wasn't enough, but I didn't dare ask for more. It wasn't the right time. I have never been one to believe in fate and destiny and timing, but something just isn't right, and the mystique nature is just much easier to blame than humanly mistakes. The romantics of a breeze blowing through my hair and tear rolling down the cheek didn't appear, perhaps because my well has run dry. Reality sets in, and nothing could've been more real.
Maybe, just maybe, this isn't goodbye. Maybe it is merely a see you later. I don't dare raise any hope.
-
There is a no take-back policy on the art of intangible gift-giving. If my heart has been long gone, how would I be expected to survive any longer? My anatomical heart feels like it's gone along with my emotional one as I fail to breathe, blood is no longer being oxygenated and pumped through my veins. The only thing that's preventing me from spilling the litres of sanguine substance is the sanity (or the lack thereof) of the flatmate as well as some close mates. Do hearts grow on tress? If so, is it harvest time yet? I'm not interested in taking back my old one because once I give it out, I don't expect it to be returned. This reminds me of Wham!, and that is not good at all. Maybe I'll just draw a realistically-shaped heart on a yellow Post-it and permanently stick it on the left side of my chest.
-
After questioning the existence of my heart in the last episode, it can now be proven that I did indeed either regain it or obtain a brand new specimen. Either the mechanism of this new heart is somewhat incorrect, or it actually skips a beat whenever I see him. Sometimes this physical visualisation isn't even necessary as it does the same thing when I merely think about him. My brain immediately malfunctions at this sign of activity as caution signals began to appear, warning me to reduce speed. Too soon, too fast, too dangerous. I'm young enough to live my life on the edge, but there is a difference between taking a small risk once in a while and driving straight off a cliff at top speed.
I'm terrified that I'm losing control. The thought of acting upon impulse itself is frightening enough, let alone the process and consequences too. This is different, but all too similar at the same time. The warnings are far too familiar for my liking and this time, I may actually take in the advice. Slow down, take a deep breath. It wouldn't help too much, but here's to hoping the delay would be somewhat beneficial in the long run.
The feeling of restlessness is almost too much to take. Yes, no, or the dreaded maybe. I might've done something stupid, but I wouldn't know. Science and maths were never my strong suits, but I do crave for definite answers as often as I could receive them. Uncertainty intimidates me even more than rejection, it seems. Questioning myself is now a constant exercise, distracted only by the loveliness of a certain someone. I'm dangerous when left unattended. I'm needy and clingy and dependent on others, and I hope that's okay with him.
-
Yesterday, the first thing I did when I woke up was to barge into the flatmate's room. Despite his semi-unkempt state, I chose to ignore it and all I could say was, "can you believe it's been an entire month???" I don't remember the exact move in date, but time flies when you're having fun and not a care in the world. A month ago, I was probably at my lowest point, and I'm happy to report that once you've hit rock bottom, there's nowhere else to go but up. I suppose this past month has proven that adage to be correct, indeed. From Paris to London to Orlando and back to London, while playing host and hostess to countless visitors, life is certainly on the incline. I'm careful to keep this climb under control, though, so that it doesn't hit the ceiling just yet. Let's hope it never does, but that may be wishful thinking.
The little moments that are oh-so-important to me are definitely there. The ridiculousness of making up mythological rum ice cream trees, the midnight snack runs to satisfy my pseudo-pregnancy cravings, the cat actually getting along swimmingly with the dog, the randomly-hidden coloured eggs which are then traded in for creme eggs. When I first suggested the idea of sharing living quarters, I didn't expect him to say yes at all. The respond I was expecting was a variation of, "Erm, huh? Are you drunk?" It was an impulsive decision on my part, and even moreso on his, I suppose. After a month, though, I can safely say that I do not regret it at all. He may, though, when he realises that he could've been without the most annoying girl on the face of the planet as a flatmate. He just hasn't gotten to that point yet.
-
There are nights lately when I just find myself lying on the bed, sleepless. It isn't even because I was upset or stressed, I just can't fall asleep for some unknown reason. My eyes would close and my body would be completely exhausted, but I would just remain awake no matter what. I understand that some people are insomniacs by nature, and others simply cannot shut their minds at the proper time at night. Neither is a problem for me, I don't think, and now I still haven't a clue why I find myself wide-eyed at three or four or five in the morning. Hours and hours were spent watching telly or tidying up empty bottles or simply staring out the window into the street peppered with streetlights. My favourite way to waste time, though, is to just snuggle against him and watch him sleep, matching my own breathing with his. Sometimes I can tell that he's dreaming, and I would wonder what kind of dream he has, what he's seeing and experiencing. If he was having a happy dream, I'd want to share that joy with him. If he was having a terrible nightmare, I'd want to protect him from the monsters in it, just like he does for me in real life. It's fascinating, seeing him next to me, deep in his sleep, with the pale beams from the sunrise shining in and highlighting his face. This is slightly creepy, and very sappy, but yes. This is what I do when I can't sleep, it's fun.
-
Last time I've talked about "forever" was so long ago that there might be an unspoken fear or somesuch about that word and that concept. We don't talk about it, not the exact word anyway. Neither of us have to speak about it and yet somehow, in a way, we understand. I love that feeling. I love being in love. I love love, and I love him. It's absolutely insane how little things he'd say can make me burst with happiness. I don't know if he even realises this, I think he does. He means every single thing he says and that just makes me even more speechless than I usually am. He thinks I make it so simple but the truth is, falling in love and being in love with him is so natural that I just can't imagine living my life any other way.