Thursday, November 25, 2010

My Superman

I don't know where to begin. The truth is, I don't know if there are enough words to start with. It's like I'm eleven again, being asked by my elementary school teacher to write an essay about my childhood hero. Only this time, the hero is real. This time, spelling mistakes exist only in my imagination.

But now I have a choice to make. I can either choose to do this the usual way or I could tone it down a little until every ounce of true emotion is squeezed right through. Let's see how this goes. (Disclaimer: Permission to use insipid vocabulary has not been granted.)

I feel him sometimes, in the morning, kissing my forehead before he goes to work. And I, I just lie there pretending to be asleep, savouring the moment like a girl opening up presents on Christmas Day. If only I knew how to think my thoughts out loud. But no, hiding behind well-thought-of sentences is foolishly easier. So I do that. I am doing that.

His spoken silence is heartwarming. He manages to always say the right things at the right time, usually followed by a few milligrams of witty wisdom. I love that about him. He gives and gives without ever expecting anything in return. And like I said, words are not enough. They never are. They never will be.

Besides, when you live with someone for so long, sometimes, you end up ignoring all the little things they do for you. Until you finally realise that what you need is right there in front of you, in the exact same place you left it. It never moved. It's always there. So you grab on to it tightly, never wanting to let it go.

Just like that baby girl holding her father's index finger for the very first time, feeling his warm chest against her forehead, the same sleepy forehead he kisses twenty-two years later before he goes to work as he whispers in his thoughts those three overly repeated heartfelt words.

The same eight letters I meaningfully entwine for his fifty-first birthday.

Dad, My Hero, My Superman..

.. I Love You.
.. Thank You.

Monday, November 22, 2010

The Invisible Tattoo

The leafless four-leaf clover is laughing at you. But the joke is not funny anymore. You and your perfectly messed up hair. Me and my invisible tattoo. The perfect getaway from cloud number ten.

Unused tickets. Receipts stuck to the door. Postcards reminding you of what you had and what you lost. Colourful maps and you still have no idea where you're going or where you're supposed to go. Brilliant.

Drunk on Grafton. A fireplace in the bloody scream. Poetry unwritten. Heaven in my heart and a train back to the city. Goodbye good girl. My happy alliteration. More or less.

Now reality bites you in the neck. Vampire style. And you scream in silence to a dark grey hue.

Thinking about your lifeless four-leaf clover and my oxymoronic invisible tattoo.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Things Change

Change is inevitable. One minute you're breathing, the next you're suffocating. Heaven and hell, and an escalator to purgatory. Black and white, and a shade of grey. The light at the end of the tunnel is behind you. Gone. Hello again. Your one way ticket to somewhere. The only question is where?

Growing up, as it turns out, is messy. Fun at first, but gets tedious with time. Much like sex. Or that roller-coaster ride you used to love as a kid. The same kid who mistook crocodiles for love making, and who naively believed that fairytales come true. Ten years later, crocodiles live on, love disguises itself as lust, and fairytales are nothing but a distant memory of the future. Extinct.

One fight - the child versus the grownup.

Who is it going to be?