Tedium Vitae.
February 12, 2013

I think I’m addicted to these moments; these moments within moments when you remember something you haven’t in a long time. And in that little tiny space, the memories hit you so hard it’s as if you’re reliving it all over the again. With each breath, each laugh, each touch, you’re just there. All over again. And it’s so beautiful you want to freeze time and live in that moment forever.

But then you open your eyes and it all fades away. You realize that all that’s happen was just a memory, a memory which no one remembers, but you.

So I close my eyes and drift away again. Remembering the things you forgot. Remembering the moments within the moments.

You can spend hours, and days, and weeks, and months, and years, paving bricks upon bricks, one on top of the other, making that wall. But  the thoughts will wash over as they weave themselves into angry tides, crashing against the confined spaces of your skull.

I feel the  little pieces of my life start chipping away in bits and lumps.

So I curl into bed and drift away again. I’m tired in my heart. I’m tired in my bones. I’m tired of disappointing others. I’m tired disappointing me. I’m just. Tired.

(I’m sorry I’m so hard to deal with.)

“This is why it hurts the way it hurts. You have too many words in your head. There are too many ways to describe the way you feel. You will never have the luxury of a dull ache. You must suffer through the intricacy of feeling too much.”

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The Things You’d Rather Forget.
August 23, 2012

I just keep thinking about that night, that ride back.

The god awful smell of ‘herb’ and spice and the not so subtle sour twinge of sweat. The alternating light and dark as we zoomed past streetlights. The stillness or about as much of you that you can get riding around Kuala Lumpur in an old taxi cab in the wee hours of the morning. The annoying whir of the engine groaning and our steady breaths. Your head on my shoulders. Contentedness.

But I find the details slipping from me too quickly.

I don’t think I even remember your face anymore.

And I keep listening to the songs that make you remember the things you’d rather forget.

It’s been two years.

I miss you.

“This is to a girl who got into my head,
With all the pretty things she did.”

It’s You.
March 23, 2012

It’s the taste of whiskey and coke, the trail of smoke upon your breath.
It’s the reckless abandon, the fleeting moment, the plunge of thought into sweet death.

It’s the exhilarating pain, the intoxicating pleasure, the bitter refusal of defeat.
It’s the heavy breaths, the spreading warmth, the rise and fall beneath the sheets.

It’s the lingering sidelong glance, the shivers up my spine.
It’s the willowy touch of wisp and smoke, the way we intertwined.

It’s a kiss, long and lingering, the breaking point, the edge of desire.
It’s you.
The way you make me feel, the way you make me remember.

Happy Birthday.
January 20, 2012

Not for the first time, I opened my eyes this morning, wishing you were here. You weren’t. It was just another product of my imagination condemned to be felt just in the deepest corners of my mind.

I laid in bed this morning, wishing I were where you are. I’m not. And it’s awful to know that while your imagination is taking you to a place in which you want to be, the bitter cold of the morning nips your skins telling you condescendingly that it’s time to face the reality you don’t want to encounter; that you’re holding on to something that’s gone.

The silence that greeted me was clear and loud. And I think for the first time in all the years that we have played this push and pull, I am thankful for this silence.

I don’t know where you are, or what you’re doing. You’re on your own now. Completely independent from me. And I from you.

And then sharp pain stabs at me because I remember how much I wanted you. And not like full of sex, or like baking cakes or watching films or the usual soppy shit. I wanted to be able to read a book on the sofa while you watched the telly, and just be utterly comfortable. I wanted you to laugh at me when I’m singing to the radio or when I’m just laying on the bed depressing as fuck after having a shit day. I wanted to be able to go on walks at like 3 o clock in the morning, watch the stars until the sun comes up, and then we can realize how insignificant we are.

And for a brief moment, the silence hurts more than anything.

But then I remind myself that I need this silence. And the pain ebbs away.

Three years ago, I never would have imagined someone’s silence would be able to have such an influence in my life. Two years ago, this silence would have killed me. A year ago, within the silence, I wondered how differently our story would have played out had you have not found me and gotten me so hung up on you.

I still do. I wonder every now and again. Would my story have played out any differently? Would I have met someone else? Would I have the courage to want what I want today? Would what I want be any different if I had spent all my time talking to other people that weren’t you?

These are just some things I will never know.

“Happy Birthday. I love you, whoever you would’ve been.”