the unspoken ones

Come to a stand-still, please.

They paved paradise and put up a parking lot

There are some clichés that I like to believe…such as time heals every wound, and que sera sera. I guess when you have nothing else that can reconcile the conflicts within you, and the cynicism just aggravates the hurt further, these time - honored clichés do provide a sense of comfort, hope, if you will.

Sometimes, I wonder if things are moving too fast, or too slow. Am I planning too far ahead – or not enough? Should I be prepared for the worst or take it as it comes? How do you know when to stop?

Stop working; thinking; asking; giving; expecting; wanting; believing; wishing; understanding; denying; accepting; tolerating; escaping; running; waiting; questioning; searching; answering.

When do you let go of the reins and play it by the ear? When do you let go of the reins and stand up to feel the wind against your face?

I wonder, I do.

Beneath the Wheel - Chapter 5

"When a tree is polled, it will sprout new shoots near its roots. A soul that is ruined in the bud will frequently return to the springtime of its beginnings and its promise-filled childhood, as though it could discover new hopes there and retie the broken threads of life. The shoots grow rapidly and eagerly, but it is only a sham life that will never be a genuine tree." - Beneath the Wheel, Herman Hesse.

Don't know how to describe how this makes me feel. Glad that someone put it down in words so well, or sad, that it's so true.

When you're swimming with your boots on...

It’s not easy to love a job when it sees you up till 1 am working, talking to people on the other side of the globe, spending 3 hrs AFTER leaving office, on the phone, ABOUT work, and haunts you in your dreams too. But I love it anyway. So that was NOT me complaining. So that’s how the week has been so far, and its not over. Tonight another couple of hrs on the phone. Why does the Earth have to be round with daylight on one half and night on the other!

Other than work, nothing much’s been up. The weekend promises to keep me out yet again, with birthdays and other plans committed to last week! I think the world needs a paradigm shift, with 8 day weeks, and 3 day weekends : 2 for socializing and other chores, and one extra for yourself, your things and sleeping!

Lunch has been uneventful, except for the old man in the elevator who wouldn’t stop checking himself out in the mirror, abs, ass n all, and hiding his balding head beneath immaculately combed hair. ‘Fess up, we all do it, but a little discreetly, unless we are the only ones in. But this was far too obvious for me to hide my amused expression, and as far as I could tell, the three other people in the elevator and I, were not invisible.

I’m generally in high spirits, relative to the past two days…for no particular reason. Perhaps its because of the contents of the little bag on my desk ..containing treasures of tropical candy, choc filled marshmallows, éclairs, mints, tic tacs, etc! *sheepish grin* Come on, 10 – 12 hrs sitting in one seat, one needs high amounts of sugar in their blood stream! At least I do! More so than caffeine.

Anyways, I better get back to it…so I can get outta here before its dark outside, just to remember what the world looks like in the evening.

*pops those mints n gets busy*

Like you're a problem girl

I’m back after a holiday that was far too short and leaves much to be desired. Sleep was abundant, shopping was minimal (not by choice), and socializing was completely neglected. Had one of those rare moments when the phone was ringing and I let it…without answering it. The feeling of being disconnected was limiting at first, and then liberating. All in all, a good break at home that ended too soon.

The little one leaves for college in a few days, a long 32 hr journey ahead of him. *shudders* Oh well! Now I can start planning my vacation to the other side of the world and save for it! Resolution no. 15437, one of the many that I make every time, on the flight back from home, and promise to myself that this time I’m gonna pull it together. These resolutions range from sleeping on time, to eating healthy, to taking up that postponed salsa class, to stop biting my nails. The last one seems almost impossible! I’ve tried everything. Any suggestions?

I was only gone a day, but judging from the work that’s piled up, it seems like I have a lifetime’s worth to catch up. Okay, this was the last of me complaining, I promise. Resolution no. 15438. *giggles*

I have managed to keep up with some of my resolutions – I did wake up early, I did take the bus to work (as opposed to the cab) and I did eat healthy and early. Or at least, relatively. I’m proud. Tomorrow I’ll try to find the 10 mins in the morning for the few yoga exercises that my mom’s been trying to make me do forever. I know I should, but tell my sleepy self that. I must say that my sleepy self is extremely cranky and unreasonable during the wee hours in the morning. I plead innocence!

Its middle of the week and I don’t feel like working at all! n it is a Wednesday night after all! *resist temptation; must work to come to work tomorrow on time, must take bus, must not be hungover*

I love my team at work! Its small, which means I can get everyone nice souveniers and still not be broke! ;) Picked up some cute aromatherapy thingis with gels, carved candles, incense and the like...!

Tonight I shall sleep early…this incessant yawning at work reflects poorly! Pandora is misbehaving; playing very distasteful music! N I am wasting too much time skipping songs! Highly inefficient at this hour…and not looking fwd to the string of meetings in the next few hours. Sigh and Sigh.

The mom has asked some questions that I cannot answer. I remember saying “Ma, you don’t get it;” I understand her questions, but I don’t think she understands my answers. It went well though…surprisingly no arguments. She did say that she might not understand it all, I live in a different world, far from what her world as a young lady was. I’m glad that she’s left it up to me to handle it though.

I need a night out with the ladies. Fine, the men can come too! Margaritas, music, the right people and the right high.

Even a slight hangover won’t hurt. Slight. *ahem ahem*

When I grow up...

Its Rakshabandhan today, and I’m terribly homesick. I am becoming more and more homesick these past few days, which is very unlike me. I guess it has something to do with the little bro going to college. Its sinking in slowly that he’s going far far away, and I’m getting busier by the day, and it’ll be hard for the family to be together as often. Sigh. Now I know what mom means when she looks at me, almost astonished, and says when did you grow up? Mom, when did he grow up?

I wish I’d been home today; I’d have liked to tie him a rakhi and extort lots of money in return! Sigh! Growing up’s a bitch sometimes.

The only consolation at the moment is that I get to fly home one of these weekends to see him before he’s off! When I left home, the room was redone, furniture was shuffled and shelves and closets were moved, and he took it over. Now when he leaves, what happens? Mom wonders what she’s gonna do in an empty house. It’s not like he is always around when he’s living there. Guys in their teens, you know how they are. But still, atleast he was there, behind that door, somewhere beyond that noise called music. She wonders, I try not to think.

In other news, work’s keeping me so busy that I have to check what’s happening on the Friday and the following Monday before I can book my tickets home. But I’m not complaining – its been exciting and rewarding so far! Besides, it gives direction and takes up so much time, that I don’t end up getting entangled in other issues! Perhaps not the best approach at resolving issues, but at least it works – for me atleast!

Living in your letters

I miss the days when we wrote letters.

I used to love writing letters, with pretty stationary, scented and glittery pens, and stickers to seal the envelopes. My letters were always very secret, and although they didn’t contain any actual secrets, I never let anyone read what I was writing, and to who. I’d sit alone, and painstakingly write long paragraphs, about everything and anything, paying particular attention to the handwriting – either cursive, or small caps, not a mix, like my class notes were often in. Winter vacation was the best time for letter – writing; sitting in the balcony, enjoying the sun and making/ writing x-mas/new year cards. That was, however, 12 years ago.

Now, I don’t even open the e-cards I receive sometimes.

Letters now seem historic – we started using emails to keep in touch, and now with IM & cheap broadband connection, I end up using emails only at work.

When was the last time that I received a letter? Sometime in the past 1 year, and not just one letter, but a few. I loved getting them - they gave me a reason to actually check my mailbox, because the only other mail I got was bank statements and bills. I always skimmed through them right away, before taking them up to my room and reading them slowly, absorbing every word. And then again. I’d be smiling throughout, filled with the warmth and comfort that only a handwritten letter can deliver, and no email or phone call can match. There’s something about seeing the words out there, on a crisp sheet of paper, in someone’s own handwriting, rather than type-written paragraphs, that touches the heart. The permanence of those words – which can be pulled out and read anytime you miss that person, or think of them, or wish they were around, is the next best thing to actually have that person present.

I loved your letters, every one of them. I read them over and over, and stashed them away safely, and went back to them during bad times. I confess, I still feel horrible for not replying and writing as often as I would have liked to. I promised you a letter, and I never sent it. I showed it to you sometime – but I didn’t send it because by the time I finished it, half the material it was out dated. That doesn’t matter, and I realize that now. I wish I’d sent it.

Receiving a letter always makes me feel special, because someone took the time out to think of me, and sit down and write to me, and me only. There is no cc/bcc’ing a handwritten letter, and its something that only the writer and the recipient share, a secret of their own, that no one else gets to be a part of.

The fact that you found time for me from your busy schedule makes me feel cared for, when everything looks down.

My apologies to a few people:

A: I wish I had sent that letter, and many more. Dozens of emails, long hours of chats and phone calls, but I still wish I’d sent it to you.

R: Every time I saw a postcard that I liked, I would think of writing to you. I never did; I wish I had.

U: I wish we had continued to write like we did in 8^th grade. Emails were never the same. Personal, but not the same.

I don’t know what happened…maybe that enthusiasm for writing died slowly with busy schedules, growing up, the internet, and various other modes of communication. I keep in touch with these people, and many more.

But letters were different.

Incomplete

Instead of deleting posts that I’m not ready to publish, I’ve started saying them, in the hope that I will on day go back and complete them. This essentially leaves me with a whole set of unfinished posts, and random word files on my work and personal laptop, with a few lines each. I have unfinished business, but this time, it can’t be helped – because something or the other always comes up and interrupts the chain of thoughts, and it’s extremely difficult to them revive it. A phone call, the washing machine’s buzzer, the doorbell, something or the other. Take now for example – a meeting. In 5 mins. Blarghh! So I better get going, and for once, jus publish the incomplete post. And let’s see if I’ll be able to come back and finish it.

I did have something to say in this post, but someone jus came by and made random small talk, and now I can’t remember what it was!

The right kind of wrong

“And what is good, Phaedrus,

And what is not good –

Need we ask anyone to tell us these things?”

- Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Gone are the days when right and wrong or good and bad, was clearly defined by parents, teachers, counselors, and the society. I realized this more than ever when my parents came to visit last week. It was heartwarming to have the entire family under one roof, and yet, it wasn’t the same as going home. I got to make the plans, decide on what to do, and their days here revolved around my schedule. I couldn’t put a finger on what it was that kept nagging the back of my head – because they hadn’t changed, they were still my parents, I was still their daughter, and although we were in my house, we were still the same family. And then it struck me – they’d let me go. Not too far – but it was a start. Perhaps they’d accepted that I’d grown up. Or perhaps it was just that they were too lost in a new place, and thus allowed me to lead, since I am from around here. I guess I’ll find out when I go back to Bangkok if I’m still the little girl who is driven around by the driver, or a young woman who’s graduation they attended, and who they waved by to as she went off to work in the morning.

It wasn’t easy – and I think they had to do it consciously. I found out when my mother tried to put a curfew on me for Friday night, and then caught herself, and said, “ Go have fun, and come back whenever you decide.” And when my dad opened the door for me late at night, no questions asked, and said good night, as if it was the most normal thing to do. My parents have always been very protective and involved – so I guess it wasn’t easy. For me, or for them.

But I guess we’re all growing up. They know that I’m going to explore my own good from bad, and right from wrong. They will watch, interfere at times, but mostly watch, approvingly or disapprovingly. Their values are the foundations of the ones that I am going to form. But a foundation determines the strength and durability of a structure, not its shape and identity.

So here goes nothing.

I am now out there to make my own mistakes, and maybe even fall face first. But if I don’t, I’d leave many stones unturned, and never find out what lies beneath. Always inquisitive, and easily intrigued, I know which way I’m going to go. Mom, Dad, everyone, I’m off to find out within myself, what is my real right and wrong.

Bed of Lies

I started to write an entry before sleeping - I typed six different beginnings and promptly deleted them all.

I have made a resolution – to be honest to myself at the end of the day, atleast for a few minutes, before escaping to sleep.

Tonight, I’m being honest. I am slightly overwhelmed by then number of roles I have to play in one day – where each one seems to be more demanding than the previous. Either they have become more exhausting, or I’m simply not up to it. I’m too numb to reconcile with this feeling at the moment. Believe me, I tried, but couldn’t muster up the will to do it. Not yet.

I am going to go to bed with a book. I want the comfort of clearly expressed words and thoughts – so black and solid, laid out neatly, page after page, before I shut my eyes.

Red

I want to paint this blank canvas because its whiteness is unsettling. Dimensionless, and vast, it promises to consume everything that falls in its path, much like a raging river. I want to leash it - with intricate patterns, rebellious graffiti, vibrant colors, paint balls and tear drops.

I want it to contain something – something explicable, something meaningful, so that I don’t have to hunt for words each time I try to describe it.

I have the supplies : the paints, the paintbrush, the smock – everything that I could buy.

I still haven’t started, and the longer I stand by the easel the more I realize that its growing and becoming larger than life.

I can’t start. I really cannot. Not because I am not an artist, but because they didn’t sell clarity in the supply store. And I can’t make up my mind about what it is that I want on that canvas.

It's the good advice that you just didn't take

I think the human race is meant to thrive on irony, and has the uncanny ability to internalize the most unexpected and irrational things as its nature. As I type this, sitting in the dark, unable to sleep, I can think of several such ironies that have shaped my own rapports, relationships, and thus my outlook towards people.

Don’t we have the remarkable ability to hurt the people closest to us? Abandon the people we love so much? Ruin some of the best things in our lives, over reasons that seem trivial, minutes after the damage is done? Destroy something that we’ve always wanted, just as we are about to get it finally? Say things we don’t mean, and yet do them anyway? Call ourselves rational, and yet make decisions that we end up regretting later? Knowing that we'll be hurt, and yet, letting things be? Allowing others to be important enough...?

I confess – I have done most of the abovementioned myself, or have had them done to me, just like a majority of us.

Someone was once trying to tell me that they loved me and I was far too hurt by then to seek any sort of comfort in that love. I said I didn’t buy that and that no, they don’t actually love me. How much of that I actually meant, I don’t know. Was I angry, yes? Was I hurt, yes? But should I have said that? No. My bad? Yes.

That would be one confession that I had to make.

The conversation was never resumed – it was put on infinite hold.

Oh, how talented we are at hurting ourselves and those we love. And how we love to be trampled on. A masochist hides in all of us? Or are we plain stupid - and not the most superior species after all?

Because ass much as we seem to like to win, our conscious and rational actions and our decisions always seem to direct us towards losing - something or someone.

Irony bites, doesn't it?

One step closer

Tonight, for the first time in the past 4 years, I thought you looked beautiful. From the cab window, your skyline fit the panoramic frame well and you looked almost gorgeous. It must have been the night, the stars, the river, the bridge, and the laughter in the background. The feeling didn’t last too long, but yes, today I smiled at you.

Its like an understanding you develop with someone, who you might not particularly like, but are forced to coexist with. You learn to live around each other and make peace with your differences, and end up finding this strange sense of comfort in knowing the other is there. It doesn’t necessarily mean that you now love them, or ever will, but you can tolerate them, for the most part.

Or its like smiling at the random stranger who commutes with you every morning and gets off the same bus stop. You don’t smile at them the first morning, because you don’t know that you’ll be seeing them everyday. But as days pass, you see them, you observe them, understand their ways, and eventually reach a point when you start smiling or nodding at them every morning – a gesture, an unsaid greeting and a relationship.

I don’t know if I smiled at you because we’re finally both in a neutral zone, and have resolved our differences. Or if it was because I’ve realized you’re going to be a fellow passenger on this commute for a few more years. Either way, looks like we’re not at odds anymore.

I don’t love you. Yet.

But maybe I can make myself love you. Maybe not.

Let’s try being friends first.

Long Way Around

Lips drawn in a tight line, distant, almost lifeless eyes, and a stoic face – the mask of a typical MRT rider going back from work. Last night it hit me that I was becoming one of them – not because I was returning from work too, but because I could feel my own face tighten up as I stared into space and waited for my stop. Since I did not just get a botax, I figured there is no need to minimize any facial activity, but I couldn’t exactly strike up a conversation with a random stranger, now could I? No no, atleast not in a Singapore MRT! So I hid my face behind a book and kept tuning in and out of it, alternating between random thoughts, and following the story. Soon I was smiling to myself, and even muffling a few chuckles, because it was a rather entertaining book. Its not *haha* funny, but the imagery triggers such strong sensory responses, and you end up smiling once you realize you were so involved in the book.

Despite all this, I somehow managed to tune out from time to time to get lost in my own thinking world. While being jostled around, at one point, I was rudely shaken out of my world because of a lady with a huge bag, and I noticed the cacophony, that is the train, at such a busy hour. A few seconds in that dimension were deranging enough to send me back to my book and/or thoughts.

I fumed over some events of the day, silently vented it all out, not to the person it was directed to, but their mirror image, in my head. Felt a little better, but not quite. I smiled about the previous night, dinner with girl friends followed by hanging out at the Esplanade, lamenting, cursing and pondering over what’s in store for us, and who deserves what. I thanked whoever's in-charge, for such great girls. Tipsy and Flirty - hats off to you two.

I also played the blame game.

I blamed you for giving me the freedom to make my decisions.
I blamed myself for not being able to tame these decisions and their consequences.
I blamed you for being so loving.
I blamed myself for liking being loved.
I blamed you for being too far from my reach.
I blamed myself for having rotten luck.
I blamed you for playing hide and seek.
I blamed myself for letting you play.
I blamed you for knowing what you want.
I blamed myself for wanting something.
I blamed you for being practical.
I blamed myself for being a dreamer.
I blamed you for being strong, ruthless.
I blamed myself for not learning it from you.

Somewhere along this game, I lost track of score. Anyone of you think you're winning?

Tired of playing, I allowed myself to take a cab back from the train station.

I met a friend and plans were made. Wednesday night, ladies night. It was a coincidence, and a sign.

I looked back and decided that I had had enough.

I don’t remember ordering a side of complications, so I sent it back to the kitchen.

"Add it to the bill, if you have to. Ill even leave a huge tip."

"It doesn't matter right now, cuz I'm going dancing baby"

Other Side

Its amazing how two extremes can be separated by a very thin line, instead of a wide range of options varying in intensity.

One gentle nudge is enough to push you to the other side of the line, oh so easily...cuz its only a thin thin line between

• love and hate (cliche, yes...even I roll my eyes at this. But come on, ya know its true)
• a confidant and a stranger
• concern and indifference
• comfort and discomfort
• hugs and crossed arms
• black and white. (no one likes gray, so don't even go there)
• home and hostel
• rage and tears
• castles and plain ol' sand
• a pyramid and scattered cards
• life and death (no DUH)

n yadi yadi ya...

Edit. Save. Shift Delete.

I want the arrow keys to go back to something that was said or done previously. I want a backspace key to delete, and an insert key to type over, as many times as I wish to. I want to save the changes, only after all the mistakes have been corrected and actions, undone. I don't want any signs of the previous errors on this document.

I want to space out and indent events so that it’s one clearly formatted and aligned document. What I don't want is a piece of paper that has multiple scribbles, doodles and words that have been scratched out later, in a vain attempt of damage control. Because they are still there, beneath the frantic scratches, that never conceal them completely. No, correction tape would not do either, its transparent when held against the light. Completely see through.

I want classy fonts, wide margins, and endless white space, to write it out the way I want. I want it to look pleasing to the eye, my eyes. Justified, bulleted, numbered, double spaced. I want to highlight and underline the significant ones and italicize the unique, eccentric ones.

I want to double click on the words I hate. And with one hit on a key, I want to wipe them away.

Delete. Words. Sentences. Paragraphs. Documents.

I want to be able to delete and send to recycle bin. Keep them there, just in case.

And when they become too hard to deal with, I want to be able to empty the recycle bin and make space.

Or perhaps, just shift + delete them in the first place.

Buses and Trains

Unfortunately, this Sunday didn’t see the bright and sunny start that I’d hoped it would, both literally and figuratively. It was pouring till late afternoon, and I finally forced myself to get out of bed sometime around 2 pm. Consequently, the agenda for the day had to be adjusted: from “visit to the national library, return books at NUS library, grocery shopping, laundry, check out houses, and dessert with a friend” to “return books to NUS library, take a good book, and sneak off to the nearest Starbucks for some thinking time.”

Of course, none of that happened. Decided to leave misery behind in bed, and showered and went off for lunch with the Engineer and another friend. It turned out to be rather pleasant affair as the other friend and I, who don’t know each other too well, found we had so much in common! Plans to get together later were made and the Sunday was beginning to look a little better.

Then the Engineer’s friends called to play basketball and off we all went! I still cannot believe how I, who's shy about playing any sports with strangers, agreed to go right away. I don’t think I’ve played bball in over 5 -6 years, and it was an extremely refreshing and partially nostalgic experience! Played with a whole new group of people who I am hardly acquainted with, but a good game, great sportsmanship and some very friendly people, made sure that I had a great time!

N I have an ‘almost crush!’ Almost because its not really a crush, but rather just admiration for a cute guy who can play well! *giggles* (operative word being cute ) and the Engineer and I have decided to call it a crush because it makes life more interesting. Yes, that’s how dull it was looking otherwise! So *snickers* I have a crush!

By the time I got back to my room, the day was looking much better and it seemed like the whole morning hadn’t taken place…or must have, but in another dimension! But once you sit and catch your breath, the day catches up with you to remind you that it was all real. Oh well!

New week, new start, new plans! Perhaps we’ll manage to kick off tennis and guitar this week! *Fingers Crossed*

And, I soooooooooo want my dessert! NOW!!

Sigh.

P.S. "Buses and Trains" is a song by Bachelor Girl

“Where are you from?” – Part 1

“Where are you from?”

One of those questions which I have several answers to, and yet, I pause, hesitate, or even fumble, depending on the situation, before I can blurt out an answer. And more often than not, I am not satisfied with it.

Like the other day, I was filling in my particulars on Facebook, and didn’t know what to put in the “Hometown” Field.

New Delhi, INDIA?

That’s what it says in all my official forms.

Country of Birth: India.
Nationality: India.
Race: Indian.

Says so on my passport too, which I’m very proud of. But do I really feel like India’s home? It’s been 3 years since I last set foot on Indian soil, and every time I do go back, a new India greets me. One where I feel like an alien because everything’s changed so much from my previous visit and the India I took back with me. It’s probably a good thing anyways.

There’s not much that calls me back.

Friends – One? Two? Who I haven’t met in 5-8 years because after leaving the town we left in, my parents didn’t leave too much behind which compelled them to go back to it. Family friends moved out as well, and our trips back to India were so busy and short, that fitting in all the close relatives took up most of the time. At the age of 10 – 11, keeping in touch through letters was exciting at first, but eventually more interesting things, such as adolescence happened, and soon writing letters became too tedious. By the time e-mails became commonplace, friendships had faded.

Family – Relatives. Grandma, Uncles, Aunts and cousins are probably the main reason why I do miss India. At first, phone calls were made regularly to keep in touch, but IDD rates limited the time and thus the conversation to mainly pleasantries and a general overview of everyone’s well being. Cousins grew up and scattered all over the country for education and careers, and meeting everyone became close to impossible. Weddings were missed because of school, and thus I couldn't attend the few occasions on which my generation of the family got a chance to get together. Emails and IMs help in maintaining the ties, but barely. University life and jobs keep us far too busy to keep in touch. News and photos of major events are circulated, but that's about it.

Home – I never had a hometown. I always envy people with hometowns; places that have seen them grow, and have grown with them. Places where they can actually compare old photographs from and discuss how things used to be back when we were young. Visit parks as toddlers in strollers, as kids, playing hide and seek or tag, as adolescents, hanging out with the gang, as teenagers, sneaking off to make out, and as parents, who can bring back their kids to these places and say : this is where I used to play when I was your age.

*Nickleback : Photograph*

I don’t have a park or a playground...

I have faint memories of the houses I’ve lived in. We moved twice, once when I was very young, and then when I was older, 11 I think, when we moved to Thailand. On my first trip back to India after moving out, I went back to the city I used to live in to find my old house. The landlords (the house owner, who used to live on the first floor) and the neighbors remembered me, and it was all warm n nostalgic till I realized that now there are strangers living in my house. My hop scotch and the pencil mark on the wall showing my height, had been painted over. The kid who I’d left my bike with had outgrown it and passed it along to some other kid, who I didn’t know. Although the strangers welcomed me in and asked if I wanted to look inside my old house, I didn’t go. I never went back to that lane, that city again.

I am still drawn to the country. I miss the cousins. I miss the uncles and aunts. I miss my Grandma.

But somehow, the answer :

I am from India,

Is left hanging, with an unsure, incomplete feeling.

A sentence, truncated at a comma.

When I grow up...

As you grow older, you stop making best friends. You just make friends.

Random Thoughts Generation

It’s about day dreaming about the impossible – only because you know it will never be real.

It’s about lecturing the little brother about something; because you learnt from your mistakes, and don’t want him to make the same ones.

It’s about saying a prayer for someone else before going to bed

It’s about sighing over the goodbyes that were incomplete, and wondering how they could have been oh so perfect.

It’s about knowing what’s practical, preparing yourself for it, and yet, not being able to do it.

It’s about mastering the art of putting on the deceptive faces: the laughing one, the smiling one, the intellectual one, the pensive one, the delirious one, the calm one…

It’s about sensing when a perfectly nice evening is about to be scarred, and yet not being to avoid it.

It’s about an ‘out – of – the – blue’ conversation with an old friend, and reviving the innocence and simplicity in relationships.

It’s about being old enough to share your mother’s worries.

It’s about the hesitation over whether to move forward for a hug, or to protect yourself.

It’s about making mid – year resolutions, and telling yourself its never too late!

*incomplete*