f.e.e.l._t.o.o.
A vast feeling, of anxiety and of uncertainty, washes over me.
Perhaps some thins are meant to be loosely done. Perhaps some are to be fuzzy. Perhaps that is what love is. Perhaps that love is not what it seems.
Or perhaps it is a convenient encounter, a convenient attachment, and then a convenient stability. Perhaps it all boils down to the core. What are the ingredients that make up the stacking wedding cake?
It does dawn on me that how easily I could fall for someone. I guess when you don’t have much to start with, practically everything and anything excites, and attracts. ‘Someone likes you?’ the conscience cooed, ‘or you like that someone?’
Does it matter? It does if you play by my conscience’s rule. Liking someone is a self discovery. While someone likes you is an opposite exploration. And liking someone who doesn’t like you… is a self destruction.
‘Someone likes you?’ the dick confronted, ’surely more for the sex than for you?’
I was given the lecture on how if after one night of sex and no follow-up date, it is purely for a 15-minute of orgasmic sensation. Thus do get over it as quick as it arrived. But what does date-after-date with sex-after-sex say? A continuous overdue service, much to the standard one sets.
‘Still with that someone?’ the balls kicked in, ‘is the sex that good?’
Promiscuous, a common belief, what not to believe; admiring an aquarium, you are bound to not pay 100% attantion to a single fish, no matter how vibrant its shade, no matter how impressive its move. Truth be told that no one particular fish can capture a person sight for more than it should, especially with other roaming the scene. Unless… it is the only fish in the tank, but eventually… the interest will be gone, the enthusiasm will ceased.
‘It is more than some flings, right?’ the heart comforted.
Seriously I am uncertain of that statement. What comes from within can never be clearly understood by the the outer hemisphere. How long does a fling last? Can a fling grow to be afloat, never to drop and break?
‘But you guys are not so intimate?’ the hands clasped.
In public? Guiltily true. The sort of intimacy can never be shown outside. Sadly it is only restricted to behind closed door. Somehow that could be one of the contributing factors to a downward trend. You spend 60% of your time outside, and 40% inside; and half of what’s spent in is under the duvet dreaming of some unrecognisable events, or worse of someone else. Being intimate is truly a passing phrase.
‘But you do get the chance to talk, right?’ the fingers crossed.
I probably can count them off my tenth, withholding the crossed one. The only fingers lift are those of switching the channels. Men can never pay attention to anything else as long as the ‘on’ button is lit on the TV, what more to a sensitive conversation. I too am often anaesthetized by it. We really are not born with multi-tasking genes, as much as we like to deny it.
‘What is the foundation then?’ the toes curled.
‘Is the foundation even plan?’ the feet played on, ’shouldn’t you be thinking of steeping onto another ground?’
To be on the safe side, I guess I should. Sourcing a safety net and keeping a spare tyre is a whole lot different story. How so? Doing a two-timer is considered greedy or selfish to some extend. But making certain of a soft spot to land on when jump is necessary or coercive is seen as a prophesy or then again somewhat selfish too.
‘Better to be bastard than a fool’, the tongue hissed.
‘But it doesn’t always have to end up rotten,’ the lips purred, ‘does it?’
Give and take, it might or might not, depending on… what? Fault… whose? Blame… who? Consequences… which? Depending on how it ends is often melodramatic. Same goes to when and where the full-stop lays. It may be an anniversary to commemorate the date and venue of first acquaitance, even to the dot. But it can’t be said of the same for the finale.
I was brought up to believe that even the worst kind of argument could never result in separation. Just take my parents for instance. Back then, at one point, they probably had the kind of disagreement that many would bet heftily on the roulette of marriage annulment. Questions were thrown at me like blasting thunders. ‘Who am I going to stay with?’ ‘ Am I going to move out?’ ‘ What if I can’t choose who to follow?’
‘Aren’t you playing the roulette yourself?’ the right ear gossiped into the left one, ‘ a stake with no remake.’
True enough, I was counting on the number 37 and the ball continues to not resting on that double digits. No one told me I was rationally fooled. How could that even be possible?
On the contrary, my parents continuously pull the wool over somebody’s eyes. They remain joining at the hips.
‘You asked for too much? Or he gave too little?’ the hip didn’t lie.
I doubt ‘demanding’ is my character, not to be noble or anything. But it is a fact. To sum the lose bits is that I am a farmer with the right soil but the wrong seed to begin with. Nothing can grow. Yet the farmer has only to hope it would one day.
Still, perhaps I was the wrong seed for the right soil of a farmer. But to be honest, I was never in the position to being a seed, what more a wrong one to start with. The farmer has decided not to plant anything from the beginning. Or he only bought the seed, and was afraid to cultivate.
As much of a simple equation, as long as love is involved, it is seldom an easy decision. Whether it is the love of family, of partner, of friend, or of pet for that matter, the answer is infinite, and occasionally bizarre.
I listen to myself. Listening to my edge, I was confronted and I confronted. And it ended.
I should have asked for a stacking wedding cake instead.
(Snaps courtesy of Reve)
