2 am musings

My state at 2 a.m. is blatantly not the best – my mind not the clearest, my fingers not the nimblest, my emotions not the stablest. Today’s piece is probably one of the most fragmented compositions I have ever made, but I’m not regretting it, at least not in this state of mind.

A close friend of mine is currently tangled in some emotional mess – relationships that weren’t meant to be, she said. His version of the story, of course, lamented the girl’s situation, showered her with compliments on the way with his sorrows. {Does it really matter who is who, or which gender pronoun is used in this? I pondered.}

{Does it really matter who is who, or which gender pronoun is used in this? I pondered.}

Would their love work regardless of the problems identified? Should practical concerns, like long distance, wacky Skype calls, periodic returns be of importance?

I certainly have no say nor the experience to say yes or no towards their decision to split – nor can I say for certain that the reason for splitting was an idiotic one. Afterall, who am I to judge?

She or he might meet up one day. On the streets. Under the casted shadows of the night. Probably he would be drunkenly stumbling. Maybe she would apologize and take a left to the caliginous space he never seemed to like. Maybe she would go pat him in the head again, just like old times. Maybe, maybe not. Who knows?

Hope is what he can grasp on tightly for now. Her hands enjoy the thorns of roses.

 

 

Trying to be poetic (2) – Tenses (2)

But there is nothing as humanizing as the past.

As the lowercase D slips down the alphabet, plummeting into its fitting place behind everything you believed in, doubts and insecurities mutate into their hideous, malicious forms, engulfing you. Your love for tranquil nights was replaced by her fervor for the neon lights and bright beams – you began to enjoy the glitz and the glam; and only when she left did you realize she was the only light you have ever seen. You grew accustomed to her messy hair strands in the shower, her slurred words in the night, her flimsy embraces.

But she grew sober, too sober for your liking, to see through your thoughts, your intentions, your desires. You began to feel conscious – patching up your flaws, hiding shared bottles of liquor, pulling down your sleeves. Her scars on her wrists disappeared, forgetting the ones growing on your heart; her nights filled with other people, yours filled with the serene ambiance you once desired – and you turned your loneliness into words; when she can’t fill up your nights, you chose to fill up pages of fading emotions.

As she left, you are rendered a mess with burnt up photographs and crumbled up notes, the remnants of your love, fragments of your history, spilled emotions and booze.

Trying to be poetic (2) – Tenses (1)

Some say there is nothing more heart-wrenching than the future.

Seeing you dissipate into the obscure crowd as people and time pull us apart; Tasting your frosty, bitter goodbyes; Hearing the screeching wind past us by as you took a step back; Letting go of your hand just like your heart has let go of me; Wondering if the warm California sun would melt away your frigid demeanor; Handing you a suitcase void of memories – as if you were the occasional tenant in someone’s life, leaving minor, almost imperceptible scratches on the wallpapers, tiny blotches on the furniture, a faint, lingering scent in the room; Questioning if you thought it was for the best, to clear up room for another occupant, perhaps a permanent one.

 

Life & Numbers

What is life?

It is about the exposure to the flair in cultures, the scent of literature, the touch of your soul in the spark of the moment.

But our lives are numbers.

Our days are numbered, our identity is numbered by the minuscule digits on our ID cards, our fate to be numbered by the lottery of life, and our success is numbered by the results we get from exams.

Life is just that simple.

But perhaps, just perhaps, we are worth more than the period of time we can enjoy Mother Nature before we cease to exist, and be buried 9 feet under in a tiny crate. Maybe we are worth more than just the alternate lengths of scrawny thin lines on our identity cards. It could be true that we can get enough luck to cheat destiny. And only if our value wasn’t just limited to the percentage we have got in public examinations.

Only if.

Numbers fill our lives and yet the irony is that some of us just never mastered the basics of mathematics. To some of us, we still obstinately believe that exams aren’t be-all and end-all. To some of us, we still have faith in the means instead of the ends. To some of us, we still consider life for living instead of getting through day by day.

To those of you out there, stay strong.