文字想投胎；作者懶

每一天，地鐵按著自己軌道，按照自己的速度，穿梭于一個站與下一個站之間。每一輛車箱裏，千變萬化的面孔卻僞裝不了這個城市的死寂。每每到了目的地，身體縂要承受推擠嚷嚷與不爽的蹂躪。生活的規律仿佛帶走了對於雕刻文字的欲望。

是嗎？

總是問自己怎麽了，怎麽不寫了。總是感嘆自己的無力，怎麽每次都來不及把與自己的對話整理記錄下來。總是想找個無聊的理由耍賴。

文字想告訴作者，我還在。作者在夜裏哭泣，我知道是我忘了你。

練習生命（2）

I asked C if he believed in platonic friendship. He said he didn't when he was young.

And I was like really? Why?

He replied nonchalantly, oh cos usually I wanted to have sex. And added he believed in it now. I asked why. He shrugged the question off.

I tried writing today, instead of putting additional hours at work. It was another agonizing attempt at wasting trees.

I asked C if I can just rest at his place. He said sure and left the house for lunch.
 
Afterwards, I told him I usually sleep better in hotel rooms or my friend's house. He was amazed. I laughed and said yes. My house is too crowded. i needed a space and ironically space is everywhere. I sleep well on planes, MRT and waiting for my bill at izakaya too.

I left the conversation hanging. I couldn't bare to tell him yet I can't sleep here too.
There were lust in the space. So dense, it was like a suffocating fog.

thank you, pf.

(i) a pond full of regret.

it used to be wet.

pugface often joked that he needs to buy a plastic sheet for his bed. he was lazy to do his sheets. the plastic sheet was not bought, it didn't matter, we didn't get there. somehow i knew, we wouldn't get there that very moment when i rested my head on his tummy post-coitus.

very soon, there became barren. for rain pours from my eyes as i mourned for the what-ifs.

(ii) fast food romance

we were the fast food romance, literally. he only eats fast food. popeyes. macdonalds. kfc. i brought him to crystal jade once for chinese food. i begged him to go and said i'll pay for it.  for it was a rainy night and i wanted chinese food.

we went. crystal jade was my compromise. but yet, i have to lie. he asked me how much when i signed off the charge slip. i looked at him and depreciated 20% off the total sum.

(iii) marry him

i told them that i am going to marry him. i wished i had captured their looks of disbelief, surprise and shock as a keepsake.

i gave him everything for i wished i could marry him. but i gave while holding back. i gave while i was looking at the back views of other men, those that i wished i had.  i gave while searching for other men in him.

that giving was insincere.

that day after, i wore a white dress to work on a saturday, happily skipping around in the office while doing up the various papers. i was a lovefool, momentarily blinded by the notion of love.

Confessions Overrated

It was when she saw herself in him, on how the stories flow and how he sought to be understood, she finally realised there were certain stories better left unspoken.

Perhaps, we were all sinners in the purest form of love. Each of us clasping both lips tightly, appearing chaste and pure in front of the lover.

Perhaps, that was the very reason why a confession box was created. Like a hole in a tree. Or some nooks in the old wall. For one to spew profanities and deposit the un-utterables. 

-

Z: Everyone says i'll find a nice guy. wtf la. I  like bad guys. you guessed it from the start didnt you, when you asked if i liked mr wrong and i kept quiet.

A was quiet. 

Z: i cut off mr. lamborghini recently. The one who appeared in my writings this year. He was a recurring broken record. We were texting, to and fro, to and fro, to and fro. i got mad, i told him you weren't waiting for me. you were working and asked me to walk to your office. 

Does he expect me to bundle myself up, tie a bow and tadah! Fuck me.

And he told me whatever. 

i replied whatever shitass. 

the moment he told me to fuck off and don't ever text me again.

There was this strange sense of freedom. a string was cut, and i looked up at the sky and laugh.

i miss the nice guys. i always feel guilty towards them and their love. like i felt guilty for the love given by my colleagues, i felt i don't deserve it. i am not their messiah and i cannot deliver them out of this situation.

A: karma is a bitch right?

Z: it might not be karma, it might be me. i'm the bitch. toying with people's emotions. leaning in, hanging them out dry, leaning in again, hanging them up again. 

i scoffed at the nice guys. i thought the care packages and coupons for hugs were passive aggressive expressions. there is no need for coupons, hug me if you want a hug, touch me if you want to touch me. 

mr lamborghini said that i played games. i was mad at that statement. i didn't. i was willing to give him my heart. the pulsating, achey and holy moley heart. i was willing to hold that and gingerly pass it to him.

i told him i would buy him yellow flowers as he's damn old school, always paying for my meal. 

I love it when he say eat. Like it was a command. 

He loves yellow flowers and  had a huge bunch at the kitchen top. It was how his kitchen table in penang looks like. though i did wonder if the bunch that his mom kept was wilting chrysanthemum. 

he said if i stayed, he will make me french toast, for he makes the most epic french toast ever. 

What is with men and their need to feed me?

=

Z: were you ever in this kinda situation, when you are stuck between damn tired and damn hungry?

A:  and damn horny, which makes it worse. you got it easy.

Z laughs.

=

Z: remember you told me the story of the cinemas in india having intermission. it's not unique. some cinemas in singapore has it. the reason for weak bladder is bollywood. 

A: they do what the indians do.

Z laughs. 

Z: they are indians. 

fairydust

there was a moment when i wanted to tell you.
go for it, for peter pan needs his tinkerbell.
it would be too much, and i let my words slide.

i was still musing the fact that you texted me despite having no intentions to meet. was it another one of those moments that i had previously described, which you replied that i had it better, for you had more primal needs than i do.

it came to a point that my friends and even myself were getting tired of me convincing people that "he's different".

of course, each one is different.

the people who came into my life are all unique individuals. some had more grace than the others, some had more values than the others, some had more funds than the others. and there are also jerks (it is at least a better word than assholes) that plainly want to take advantage. that was the reason why i deleted you from my phone book after we had beer. that was also the reason i could not look at you in the eyes when we toasted.  i was afraid that i would tread down the same street, fall into the same hole. that would be too painful (though my pain threshold had increased another notch) and too costly, for i do not have too many new yorks to run and life can't have too many resets.

how could i outrun the tentacles of modern technologies. you were deleted from there, still present at here. i continued the texting, some of our conversations echoed the past conversations that i had with others. the offbeat randomness. the massive monologues from my end. a memory of the past msn or icq.

text carries no emotions and words are easily misinterpreted. at times, i sensed your exasperation. your need for space. at times i decided enough is enough, cut the line, stop the conversations/monologues and let you go (despite the fact that you never stayed).

but every time, yes every time, you got bored and checked in again. and i started sharing again, bits of my world, random information, writings that got dissolved in time, fluid thoughts, movies, music, pictures.

first it trickles, then it overflows.

i always thought i was teresa, the conflicted individual, grabbing on to things that should not be denied their freedom.

but that night, after a 6 hour long conversation with C (unfortunately,it could not be placed in either sunrise, sunset, midnight) and my sudden hysterical outburst, he held my hand while i slept. the tightness of the grip. the twitches. the throbbing pulse.

wow, this is how teresa must have felt.

at the break of dawn, he turned and finally letting go of my hand, offering me an opportune moment to gather things and take flight. as i slipped off, i realised i am tomas, the one being held on to.

it was after some time that i realised, my love for freedom and being caged in the mundane of everyday life created a conflicted, ironic yet beautiful individual. i have decided stop beating myself up in the damn cage and start being free in my mind.

and my love for freedom understands that you need and crave for your type of freedom. so i told you i saw your fairy. pointed you the road to find it. for peter pan needs the fairydust to fly free and be safe.

go for it, peter pan.