'you are someone else
i am still right here'

a love that baffles the heart

i thought loving and destroying yourself for someone who made you willingly or by default, is the greatest passion in the world. till i saw someone loving unconditionally unendingly unhealingly, the one who destroyed him. by default and by design. who tore him to so many pieces that he forgot what jigsaw he belonged to. who ate his shell and threw him away, open to the raw jaws of uncertainty. the one who then, inspite of a bloating stomach, went after his core and burned that down as well. who negated him by refusing to acknowledge him. who taught him nothing by choice. who gave nothing and took everything, sometimes even things he didn't have, things he couldn't live without, things i suspect he would willingly give him anyway, had he just said the word. the one who rode on the chiselled shoulders of his stubborn adoration and then promptly chopped off his arms. in that someone's knifemarked back i've seen true hurt. in his refusal to utter a single word of complaint i've heard true devotion. in the silence of his skipped beat at the mention of that other one, i have witnessed a love of unbelieveble strength. a love that feeds on itself. a love so completely self-made that it doesn't need the fuel of a good memory, a loving look, a secret touch, a late night sms, a drunk promise, a word of encouragement, a show of affection, a shield, a smile, a nod, a caress or a shred of hope to keep it going. a love that doesn't fade, no matter how much pain and rejection seeps into its pores. it's as if his love has become him. if it goes away, he will disappear. it is a love i couldn't imagine could exist. it humbles me. inspires me. mocks me. teaches me. makes me feel lucky. makes me feel like a fool.

funny how people tend to confuse knowing someone inside out with the right to hurt them. when in reality, neither exists.

there is nothing more difficult than setting the alarm for a lazy conscience

for years a warm bird sat on my cold chest
for years it made my heart flutter
the day it suddenly flew off
was the day i suddenly knew
it was my warm heart that made the cold bird flutter

if there is anything that makes unmakes changes breaks tricks defines defeats incites intimidates uproots unhinges you, let it not be someone else's opinion of you. that would be an insult to life.

love with the thirst of a deep breath
hate with the finality of indifference

people who are really obsessed are rare and are usually unaware, unvocal of it. most are just obsessed with the image of being obsessed. the saddest part is, they go through their whole lives believing they are the first kind. the second saddest part is, those who see through them and love them despite them, will never have the heart to tell them what they are or what they have become. because, and that's the third saddest part, because that image is all they have. let them hold on to it. all we can do is spread out our arms below them, to hold them when eventually they do see the mirror. by courage or accident, whichever hits first.

next we know baba ramdev might claim he can cure people who like the colour red.

started reading kazuo ishiguro, my second jap writer. he is surprisingly brit in his writing. especially after haruki murakami it sounds strangely alien. i think i like haruki better. but then i'm only a few pages into kazuo.

you can fool everyone. you can fool yourself if you put in a little effort. but you can never fool the ones who truly love you.

and if i don't remember, i am reminded.

"hey do you know this guy called t? did you work with him?"
"i know him but never worked with him."
"ok. he's joining us tonight."
"great. i'll be seeing him after 5 years. you know when i quit, i went to say goodbye to him. i said, 'nice not working with you.' that was fun."
"heh ya he's a fun guy. you know he had an accident? a very very bad one."
"what! i'd no idea."
"ya he did. car rammed into a lamppost. head smashed into the windshield. his face was fully embedded with glass shards.'
"fuck. was he..."
"...drunk? yes. stupid fucker."
"lucky stupid fucker."
"you bet. touchwood. his face was in a mummy-like plaster. we couldn't recognise him. he had to drink his lunch out of a straw stuck at the edge of his mouth. but he had surgery done and now his face is back to what it was. no signs of the accident at all."
"he has no idea how lucky he is. fuck. i need a drink."
"thankfully he didn't kill anyone."
"that too."
*********
ironic i should hear this story in july. a story about a fun guy, a last drink, a late drive, a lamppost. except this one stops at a shattered face reconstructed by surgery. and that other one has ended with a shattered mind trying to reconstruct a lifetime. perhaps i heard this one because this year i forgot to write about that one. how long has it been now S, 4 years? and how old is your mind now, 4 years? do you recognise yourself in the mirror? do you even recognise that it's the mirror you're looking at? i hope you're stronger now, because i'm still chicken. i still don't ask after you. but i admit i've been asking myself what would have happened if your guardian angel had lifted your face gently and let it collapse into the windshield instead of the steering wheel. maybe we'd be teasing you about your chin-scars. maybe we wouldn't be teasing these you-shaped scars, absently scratching them every once in a while till they bleed fresh red rivulets of memories.