rechallenged the addiction

History has a way of repeating itself. To kill a mocking bird, an epic in which I found indulgence over the past three days. I still recall clearly the first time the title was introduced ever so politely is in the film Capote. How can one forget a production of such dignify. More so of its content.

Relationship roles out as granduer as history does. It has a profound index to every chapter. Vividly moments are pieced together, but vaguely most are hardly significant of the other. Reminiscence of history is documented, but relationship isn’t. In a way safely we can say that relationship in our life is the passing history of ours. Nostalgia is what I occasionally felt when recalling my past relationship. It pains me to see the route ending, yet it fills me with anxiety whenever another one blossoms. I often become anxious because I am impatience. It has also to do with the fact that relationship doesn’t have a time-start. It begins whenever it has to.

HS used to say that our relationship started when he first met me at the little diner. For me it only started few days later — when my head’s clearer, my heartbeat slowed, and my emotion taken over. I did cry after that. Not of sadness, but of perplexity. I was overwhelmed with this feeling of being loved by someone equally sincere like my parents do, and more intimately than any friends I’d permit. It was as if my heart was half alive all this while, and he put the other half to beat on that day. A bloody good surgeon without needing to perform a surgery, I’ll say.

I had tears streaming down my cheeks last night, after finishing that book. I ran my thoughts on everything we did and everything we didn’t, and anything that we  could’ve done. It was cloudy. It was more than half a decade ago. I thought the better of calling him, but decided to send him sms instead. The text was brief and nothing personal. The usual greeting and ask of weather, He replied quicker than I expected. Our smses never ceased with one on each side. He always seems to have things to talk about, and oddly me too. It was also the first time we spoke of his bf without me going ignorant. I used to think that boy is somehow responsible for our distancing. I felt sorry for myself now for thinking that way. I might have thought I was dying because half of my heart is going to stop beating the minute he leaves. And it did for a long time until another person came by and revived it.

I felt so much better after that. It was as if I relived history once more, in a more appraising manner. If you’d ask me today whether I think the relationship would last if his current bf hasn’t shown up, I’d laugh so loud and say “no”. It was never his fault, nor HS, nor mine. It was a ship built with one to many holes. It’d sail smoothly and with occasional hiccups, but it wasn’t sinking just yet. We’ve known of the many holes, but never did a thing to mend it or to count the days to its submerging. We were too engaged in the present rather than the future. I can’t say I agree it was the right way to a relationship… it was certainly the happiest ever for me. So often we wait on, we plan for it to work, we pull the trigger only when we are vested. We love to reason. And reason to love. And by then we only have reasons left of why we never did try to love.

I might still laugh as hard as anyone would if I hear myself say “he isn’t ready for a relationship”. It is his shortcoming, not mine. I am always ready to love and to be loved, to start another relationship (and undeniably end one that diesn’t quite afloat), and that is a part of my history and it would be his if it works out well.

It was censored. It was tripped. It was a refund!

That would best describes the phenomenon known as international screening at the cinema. It does make one wonder how reversible is Malaysian Censorship Board. It does also question their basis of what is obsence and what’s not. I particularly enjoy the pictureless screen with moaning sound. It is good for my left brain. or is it the right? To in some way piece together a mental image of what does the sound add up to.

It has became a norm to find scene showing affection or intimacy being over-shadowed by the man projecting the film. I do believe most Malaysians to certain extend are immune to such approach. But to the eye of a foreigner, we are the laughing stocks!

Holland Film Festival is running for another 4 more days. I will continue being naive about going for it.

Much of my past writing has been, hmm how should I say this, naive and to some extend childish. We learn not to repeat the missed step by referring to our past. I do see myself matured, physically and cognitively. I also admit that I did wrote quite abit previously, but never made it onto this blog or the previous one, or the one before that. Most of it resembles a void yet to be filled. Perhaps by end of this year I will get to blog every one of my past nonsense here, since this is like a rehabilitative space for an addict of sort. And I do understand that Sundays are usually proper and refreshing. Just bare with this Sunday Morning with abit of tolerance, in which I wrote earlier this year.

Talk about the Sunday evening that we had to begin the life of two separate being

Talk about the Monday morning that none of us giving any sort of that love we anticipating

Cos’ we only look at ourselves and never five a second thought of how it would be like to be in another spot

Talk about the Tuesday afternoon that silence came too soon the relationship took an end

Talk about the Wednesday moon that a slight difference seems to make thing ruin

Cos’ we only got ourselves to blame for the time we left behind deeper than anyone could understand or imagine

Talk about the Thursday night that brought us to this side of a confrontational of one’s right

Talk about the Friday midnight that we cruise on the sinful sight the reason that let to us fight

Cos’ we chose to be in that open relationship that has no meaning like the plate of ours with no forgiving or loving

Talk about the Saturday evening that we struggled for reasoning but that has let to no returning

Talk about the Sunday morning that last word we ever saying it shall only be contemplating

I wrote this awhile back. Actually more like years back. Here goes…

Change is like passing water. You know the current. You sense the calmness. But you will never get hold of the singularity. People are like fluid. In some way we are shaper (I digress using the word Mystic… hehe). Anyway change is an immerse commitment. It is also frighteningly scary (I know, very redundant). Loving a person can make you change yourself. Not necessary entirely or consciously  but in a smaller scale as the love progress. I shall love the change as I am changing to love him more.

I couldn’t sleep. I suffered severe insomnia. Lullaby that puts me to sleep didn’t work anymore. I tried humming it in my head. I still couldn’t sleep. It is 2.15am. I paced up and down in the limited space, waiting for my laptop to warm up. I need to type it out, whatever it is, in my head. I slowed my breath to slow my heart beat.

My physical being is weak and craves for hibernation. My mental being is alert and craves for attention. If this continues an longer I could suffocate of too much waking seconds. The more I am awake I think of the mere possibility of me dreaming. I can’t remember the visual I dream. It sounds very much like Masochist. I am no killer. I only suffer insomnia. A condition I have little control of.

I had on my earphone. It broadcasted the accommodating deejay. Her voice is soothing. I went on to take a leak, brush my 32 count of teeth again, and pace down more so that I could pace up more. I like the sound of the strokes of brushing. It is the only moment that I could hear the softness of it on the toughening rows. I also like the sound of the gurgle of tap water. it differs from the droplets of rain I heard in the evening. It plays sparingly in the hollowness of my oral.

I legged pass the alley to the stand. I commuted. I stationed. I work. Now is 2.15pm — exactly twelve restless hours. I yawn and yawn yet I can’t sleep. I can pop the bitter sweet pill and end the torture. I am scared.

At least the eye cream works. I don’t look one bit tired or show any sign of sleepless nights. The teabags are safe for the time being. More so I rather have coffee than tea. Wakefulness is hunting within me. It hurts to be constantly preyed at. It frightens me more than not able to be sober. No liquor heals. No warm milk comforts.

I… sleep… with… my eyes… open. But I am not comatose.

Something caught my eye today while browsing Yahoo! and it has nothing to do with porn or half-naked men. It has everything to do with communication. Err.. actually more like on-the-stop pick-up lines, or more subtlely known as “props”. Perhaps I will give it a try over the weekend.. although some of the props are kinda cheesy to my own liking.

Yesterday I think I hate masturbation. Today I think I lost my patience.

A good friend called last night (actually more like 1am this morning) and sang the sweetest song ever. The reponse from me is “insensitive scolding”. Sure I get irritate when people call me when I’m sleeping, but never have I didn’t such a nasty thing before. I felt awful!

Rewind back to yesterday, in which the only physical attention I got is from my hairstylist. My usual one was busy with another client, and this new guy help me out. If I knew he was going to cut my hair, I would have not wear specs. I couldn’t see how cute he is for the 30 minutes he was snipping away. But I really have to say I enjoy his techniques. I felt special after the cut. Sorta like his masterpiece. And that made me visualize his other masterpiece!

So there you have it, the sexless dude is still sexless. If this goes on any longer, I think I might just get back my vriginity!

All I want for Birthday is a good fuck!

Shallow eh? Desperate?

Hormonal imbalance should never happen to someone in his 20s. I should be out there having as many men as the world could offer. Instead I don’t have any.

Correct me if I’m wrong. Life is short, but it shall never be dull, more so not to be lonely.

I think I’m beginning to dislike D-I-Y. Sigh!