Thursday, January 26, 2017

Are You Looking At Me From Behind Your Opaque Glass?

Time has gone by.

I know that I am not the person I once was because of my lack of specificity. No longer do I keep the tiniest details on my retrospective speed dial, no longer am I able to put my finger on exact moments. Here I am, trying to recall the precise number of months since our ephemeral narrative came to a close. Here I am, not remembering.

There is a curious kind of heaviness on my chest. Am I mourning the passing of the person I was? Am I a different K, maybe a stronger one, who does not feel the need to cry at the thought of forgetting something so trivial? It is different from what I'm used to, and I don't know how to feel.  

We and two others sat on four sides of a square table. It was as merry as a weeknight could responsibly be, and I really appreciated that you took an Uber out to join us. To join me. Singleton in hand, you offered me a space cake. I declined. Sober K kind of hates Stoner K.

The drinking games came to a close. The girls started talking, SSS (bestie) was having a hard time with SS (her ex). With my phone dead and nothing to distract myself with, I became almost painfully aware of your existence. Next to me. Glancing. Twitching.

Only there it didn't hurt. It wasn't pain. It was a nothingness, threatening to expand into everything. It was like having anaesthesia imposed on my feelings by an already numb person.

We were no longer together, regardless of whatever feelings run beneath. But it was so reminiscent of how it felt to be with you that I shivered. Maybe it was because I've been feeling so full of wholesome love lately, but it spooked me, how empty your affection felt.

As opposed to my headfirst, deep-dive approach to love, most people would think that your slight-distancing mode of choice is more appropriate and culturally "cool".

That was my chilling realisation that fitting into your world meant accepting numbness and hollowness as the norm. It finally made sense, how you never tried but always effortlessly fit in with the cool kids. Because being cool meant feigning casual nonchalance (which is the opposite of me). Only you're not faking.

I've always thought that you had a wall up, but it just never seemed exactly right. Tonight it dawned on me that although there was a wall, it was not between us. It was between you and yourself.

So yes, what you said all those unspecified months ago was right.

I want more.


Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Sweat

Our meeting was a sweaty affair.

It was the sort of sweat that lingers like pheromones in the air, unperturbed by the AC's determined whirling. It was an indication of zeal so relentless, as if the only thing left in this world were the two bodies intertwined beneath. It was a declaration of pleasure, anguish and pain, as if all frustrations of the world could be mended with a firm grip, and released with a hard thrust.

It was an accidental masterpiece, a byproduct of rhythmic passion, a mid-tempo melody punctuated only by involuntary huff-puffs and almost-whiny sighs. It was the type of sweaty that breaks down walls and knocks over that box in your heart you labelled 'connection'.

It was the best kind of sweaty I've had in a while. And as soon as it began, it was over.

We were still sweaty, but the gentle warmth that signalled contentment turned into a calm of silence... the sort of silence that precedes awkward departures. Your eyes dimming, I watched as the fire slowly died. You followed with a goodbye that was harder than I anticipated.

I did not expect to feel this way. I did not expect to unlock the doors of intimacy. But the afterglow of sweat that trails in your wake have become a bitter reminder of that gateway slammed shut.

Our meeting was a sweaty affair, and I will remember to forget it.

Friday, September 9, 2016

I Don't Hate You

You are the trigger that reignites
an enmity of adoration and abhorrence
in the very fibres of my being.

I don't hate you, on the contrary;
it is easier to be angry
than to admit I am broken.

The state I am in is one of careless mend,
a whole made out of pieces,
a volatile kind of stable,
a looming sort of combustion
that threatens to explode at our every almost-touch.

I don't hate you, S.

Wednesday, September 7, 2016

The Hardest Part

I recently read an article which said that the hardest part of moving overseas was coming home. Reintegration to a society and life you've left behind. The life you vehemently tried to leave in your past so you could fit in to a new environment and do away with the homesickness... is now your present. You're back in semi-familiar grounds where nothing is the same: people have moved on, everything thinks differently, your family is finally used to the idea of you being away, etc.

It does suck.

But I guess I am whining from a position of privilege. So I shall stop.


Saturday, July 30, 2016

Just bought myself a MBP. Man I hate paying for my own shit.

Sunday, April 17, 2016

When does trying become trying too hard?

I’m stuck in a rut. I’m overthinking and just expecting the worse as usual. I confided in S and she agreed, I was overthinking and making it worse for myself. Things weren’t that bad. In the grand scheme of things, it’ll be one of those moments that we’ll be laughing at a couple of months from now. Everything’s fine.

I can’t help it. I don’t want to expect the worse but I am compelled to do so. I know I can’t change the end results even if I run through all possible scenarios in my head. I know running through them brings only harm and has no benefit. I know all this but I can’t seem to stop. It’s actually more of an effort to not think about it than run through the motions. I tell myself I want acceptance from within and that if it’s over it’s over but I can’t stop.

I start bracing myself for catastrophe and then telling myself to relax, you can’t prepare for every slightly-possible tragedy. But I can’t. I don’t want to tell myself ‘I told you so’ when it happens but that’s what I’m screaming at myself now. Internally I scream, that I never should’ve put myself in such a situation again, that I should’ve known better than to forget how much it could hurt, that this is a direct consequence of me breaking my own promise to myself to never let this happen again.

Then there’s the part of me who wants it to work. Who wants it to it’ll work out. Who allows me to believe that it just might work out. The part of me where a lone, smothered voice beckons me to remember all the positive words I’ve accumulated over the past few years, words that I’ve used to build this pedestal where even on my knees I’d be as tall as everyone else.

“If you never play the game because you’re afraid to lose then you will never in hell stand a chance of winning.”


And that’s where my contradictions begin.
 


Friday, January 29, 2016

Have you ever wondered what it'd feel like to not exist?