Friday, June 22, 2012

The Plunge

If only your smile wasn't etched on my heart. If only your lips weren't grafted on my skin. If only.

You knew back then what I know now. You knew. That it'd be good, that it'd be more than good, maybe even better than great. You knew. That hands don't have to be held to be warm, that lips don't have to be kissed to be wet, that words don't have to be said to be heard. You knew. Oh yes you did. So why didn't I? Why didn't I know that aching souls can be cured by drunken sunsets, that there was more to it that meets those beautiful blue eyes, that there is more to this, to life, that merely being able to hide behind childish stupidity?

Why didn't I? Or maybe I did know. Maybe the only way we know how to avoid being consumed by fear is to hide from fear itself. Maybe that's why you knew and I didn't. Because you weren't afraid. You were willing to take the plunge. Instead, I took the plunge(r) and I drowned it. I drowned it into your red and rugged glass of white wine. And it drowned. And it sank. And it kept on sinking. Just like that boat in the middle of the empty ocean, with a little black hole piercing its skin, allowing water to ooze in, drop by drop, until there was no more space left, and so, the only thing left for it to do was go down. Slowly.

Slowly. I watched it, go down. I am watching it. But then I remember your smile and your lips, and suddenly, just like that, the boat stops sinking. I realise there's a plunger right where the hole used to be, and for a minute, could have been a second, reality is no longer etched and no longer grafted. For a minute, it is what it is, because what it isn't doesn't make much sense at all.

You knew, didn't you? You always did.
It's all good though. Because now, now I do too.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

People Are Like Books

I love books, but it's been a while since I've read a really good one. I love people too.

People are like books. Yes, they all have their own story and what not, but frankly, that is not where I want this to go. People are like books. You enter a bookshop, hopeful, you go round and round, and then again and again, and you search. You search for something meaningful, for something that you are willing to spend time on without losing too much of yourself in the process. Your eyes, they fall on that one particular book. No, the cover is not that good looking. You're not that shallow. You don't judge a book by its cover (I'm sure I've heard that phrase somewhere before). You open it, gently, as if your life depended on it. Then, before you start reading the blurb, you smell it. You don't know why you do the things you do, but you do them anyway.

But that's not really the point here. Blurbs lie; they make you think that the book you are about to purchase is the best book ever to be written. Wrong. Because then, you go home and you start reading. Months later, and you're stuck reading that very same book. You thought it would get better halfway through. You thought it would start to make sense by now. Think again. Then, try again. Not because you enjoy doing it, but rather because 'half finished' has never been your style. But maybe it should be. Because if the ending is just as painful as you suffering throughout the whole book, then maybe it's just not worth it. But the thing is, how would you know if the ending is good or not if you never bother finishing it?

But now you finished it. Now you know. It's not you. It's the book. Maybe it's a little bit you. Maybe you just lost interest. No, no, it's the book. It has to be. Because blurbs lie.

But sometimes they don't. Sometimes, books can surprise you. It's what I love about them.

It's also what I used to love about people.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

Candy

It all starts with candy, your mum telling you not to accept any from strangers in minivans trying to lure you in. You remember fidgeting, nodding, thinking that candy is just candy, that there shouldn't be any hidden agendas. But as it turns out, there is, there always is. Because, as a matter of fact, being approachable, easy on the hearts, naive even, that's exactly the kind of aftertaste you don't want anywhere near your mouth. Before, there used to be this wide open wooden door with a key underneath a carpet and an invitation that says come in. Now, now there's just a wall and a carpet being sent over to dry cleaning. It's funny (not really) how, when you grow older, candy is replaced by empty promises, the stranger becomes a "friend", and the van, well, the van is just a van. At least back then you would come out a winner with a full stomach and a happy smile. Now you just come out empty.

People lie. That's what they do. They think you don't notice. They think that because you don't notice, that they can get away with it, which they do, but not because you don't notice, because you do, but because you'd rather waste your energy somewhere else. And the sad part is that you know there must be good in people. Maybe they just fail to share it with the rest of the world. So eventually, you learn to lower your expectations. No big deal. Seriously, if they don't really care, then why should you? Why put so much effort when it's all going down the drain and into the minivan anyway?

Trust is bitter sweet, like candy, and you either have it or you don't. And as the saying goes.. fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice shame on me, so pack your bags and just let me be. No, wait, it doesn't exactly say that, does it? Oh well, nevermind.