I know our
time together is
no more.
then why do
words
come to mind
that call you
back?
Why do I plan
lifetimes
that include
you?
Why do I
torture
myself
with love
I never felt
while you were
here?
From 'How to Survive the Loss of a Love'
Colgrove, Bloomfield and McWilliams
ISBN 0-553-10492-6195
A random thought makes me think of him today. You know who.
ok ok ok :)
Relaxine Maxine. He used to say it whenever I was over-reacting to something he said. God knows what and God knows how many times.
I just like the fact that he was as I wanted, in my mind, under my control (until I overstepped the hidden boundary and was reminded of it). He had a corny sense of humour, but it made me laugh, and that has been one of those tiny little strings that have anchored me; that have buoyed me upon the sea of life. I think I would have gone under if it weren't for him, at one point of my life. I stayed alive in order to think up smart repartees. I was so comfortable with him; I could just 'let it rip' and give him gaalis left, right and centre.
But of course, I was comfortable with the person I had invented, not the person he is actually. Damn this entire chatting on the Internet business.
I have kept a few of the funny emails for my black Barney days. I think it is perfect alright to do so. I also think it's okay to think of people after you've tried to blank them out.
It happens.
Now I look at the date and I say to myself, 'Huh. Another 10 days, and it will have been an entire month since we last spoke. Huh.' Who knows? There's a probability, undoubtedly slim , that I shall bump into him someday. I'll have to speak to him then, won't I?
There seems to be so much I want to write about, but I can't seem to make coherent sentences.
Not about him, mind you. Just about stuff, things I am observing or feeling and want to write about. But I can't articulate. And am therefore useless.
Yesterday, I thought I wouldn't mind living here indefinitely - even if it took me five years to find myself a man/job/life. It's not so bad here, bar the traffic.
Today, I want to find myself a man now. I want to get off the little pathway I am meandering on and go straight for the next stop on this journey.
Sometimes I am at peace, other times I feel as if me, the person who is I, is trying her best to crawl out of this useless shell and get going. Do something, anything. Restlessness, one would say. Or impulsivity. Impulsivity is a sign of depression, or rather, a sign of the medication kicking in. Yes, I know all that. I am not too sure that I will be able to curb my impulsivity over here. I suppose that I have reached a tipping point as well. And I know that the fallout is going to be majorly major.
quietly insane.
I'm getting quite
noisy about it.
The neighbours must think
I'm mad.
The neighbours, for once,
think right.
This is from the same book.
Oh, the irony. http://skyejacques.blogspot.com/2007/10/life-is-biggest-fallacy.html
I remember that day. Madness. Utter madness. There is a surface me, who is keeping 'it' together, whatever 'it' is. But the other me has her days too. I think she's come in for a long haul again.
time together is
no more.
then why do
words
come to mind
that call you
back?
Why do I plan
lifetimes
that include
you?
Why do I
torture
myself
with love
I never felt
while you were
here?
From 'How to Survive the Loss of a Love'
Colgrove, Bloomfield and McWilliams
ISBN 0-553-10492-6195
A random thought makes me think of him today. You know who.
ok ok ok :)
Relaxine Maxine. He used to say it whenever I was over-reacting to something he said. God knows what and God knows how many times.
I just like the fact that he was as I wanted, in my mind, under my control (until I overstepped the hidden boundary and was reminded of it). He had a corny sense of humour, but it made me laugh, and that has been one of those tiny little strings that have anchored me; that have buoyed me upon the sea of life. I think I would have gone under if it weren't for him, at one point of my life. I stayed alive in order to think up smart repartees. I was so comfortable with him; I could just 'let it rip' and give him gaalis left, right and centre.
But of course, I was comfortable with the person I had invented, not the person he is actually. Damn this entire chatting on the Internet business.
I have kept a few of the funny emails for my black Barney days. I think it is perfect alright to do so. I also think it's okay to think of people after you've tried to blank them out.
It happens.
Now I look at the date and I say to myself, 'Huh. Another 10 days, and it will have been an entire month since we last spoke. Huh.' Who knows? There's a probability, undoubtedly slim , that I shall bump into him someday. I'll have to speak to him then, won't I?
There seems to be so much I want to write about, but I can't seem to make coherent sentences.
Not about him, mind you. Just about stuff, things I am observing or feeling and want to write about. But I can't articulate. And am therefore useless.
Yesterday, I thought I wouldn't mind living here indefinitely - even if it took me five years to find myself a man/job/life. It's not so bad here, bar the traffic.
Today, I want to find myself a man now. I want to get off the little pathway I am meandering on and go straight for the next stop on this journey.
Sometimes I am at peace, other times I feel as if me, the person who is I, is trying her best to crawl out of this useless shell and get going. Do something, anything. Restlessness, one would say. Or impulsivity. Impulsivity is a sign of depression, or rather, a sign of the medication kicking in. Yes, I know all that. I am not too sure that I will be able to curb my impulsivity over here. I suppose that I have reached a tipping point as well. And I know that the fallout is going to be majorly major.
quietly insane.
I'm getting quite
noisy about it.
The neighbours must think
I'm mad.
The neighbours, for once,
think right.
This is from the same book.
Oh, the irony. http://skyejacques.blogspot.com/2007/10/life-is-biggest-fallacy.html
I remember that day. Madness. Utter madness. There is a surface me, who is keeping 'it' together, whatever 'it' is. But the other me has her days too. I think she's come in for a long haul again.
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