I can't shut it out.

There are times I think I will go absolutely mad if I have to endure another day.  I wish I could hide in the night.

The Split-Second Meet-and-Fade

Sixth of November,

I saw you, and
I utterly
could not
believe it

My heart
frantically pounding
in its fragile cavity
fell out of my body and onto the ground - splattering
red

I completely froze
into non-recognition,

failing to know what to do, I was so tempted to tap on your shoulder, but

I had nothing to say,
so I lost you

Pins and Needles

It's 4:00 AM in New York, and the temperature is, not surprisingly, a December kind of subzero.

I wish I could fall asleep, but my mind is too busily trying to file away all the worries that have piled up on my desk.  I can barely stand the sound of my own voice right now - I need the quiet.

Right this moment, this world is too brutal a place for someone like me.

"We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered." Tom Stoppard

There are times when someone else's words just fit you better than your own.

A bid to say hi to forever.

This morning, I heard through the grapevine that Daul Kim, Korean-born, Singapore-bred supermodel, had died from an apparent suicide by hanging.  To say I was devastated is an understatement and an overstatement - simultaneously.  I didn't know her, so there is no way I could claim to feel the sorrow that her true friends feel.  But that doesn't make the sadness I felt any less striking - rather, different.  Instead of a fury of bright and harsh colors, imagine a dripping, messy watercolor, and that is how I felt (and still feel).

I've read her blog before (iliketoforkmyself.blogspot.com/), and her entries are poignant, touching, and often bittersweet.  Like I said, I never had the chance to meet her, but I wish I had.  Especially knowing what I know -- that she would make a decision at some point to end her life.  I don't know what I'd say to her, really, but maybe I could drum up the right combination of words to make her stay just another day longer.

It's how I cope, every day -- I look for the most effective set of words for my head and heart so that I can survive each moment and live to the next.  I wish I could have found those words for her.

When someone else speaks the truth.

After avoiding the truth for so long, I was overwhelmingly startled when they were spat into my face: these sharp, cornered, origami-structured words, without any coating to cool the throat that swallowed them.  I didn't know what else to do but let the tears bubble up in my eyes and boil over (weak!). I grimaced, I cried, while she stood there, dumbstruck that she nailed it in one shot.

"I didn't mean it."
Oh yes, you did.  You have, for many, many years.

"I'm sorry."
You probably are, but it still hurts.

I have been dodging the bullet by refusing to acknowledge the entire extent of the problem.  But see, it isn't as though the problem is something new - of course. There are two continuing "problems" I have - both typical, both painful to even consider as I write these words.

(1) I am insecure, as a result of being either picked on or left out (of the "cool" group) as a kid.  I was what you Americans call "lame"/"nerd"/"geek"/what have you. All I want to do if find a scene in which I would fit in and, well, fit in.

(2) I have always resented my father for being an abusive and quasi-psychotic bully. I continue to resent my mum for being a nagging, bi-polar weakling.** Regardless, I live for their approval and yearn for their acceptance.

Even though I've repackaged myself several times over the years, I still face these same two things every day, and it doesn't get easier.

Especially when someone whom you love aims at your head and hurls it at you without any remorse and with full conviction.




--
** I know I am being harsh with my choice of words (and for that, if my parents ever read this, I am truly sorry).  Of course, my parents are not always the caricatures I make them out to be.  They are wonderful people.  Generally.

How My Heart Sings

It sings a sad tune, I tell you. One that I keep shoving down my throat to keep the bitterness repressed.  I'm afraid to let it all out, so I do in small doses, and indulge in a little role-play type fantasy.

I meet you.
I catch your eye.
You smile at me.
You wave me over.
I saunter over and introduce myself.
You tell me your name, which I have known secretly for a long time, but I pretend I know nothing about this person in front of me.
And the rest is supposed to be history.

Except history has a factual presence, and this is not a collection of facts.

There's a longing I feel that I haven't felt in years, and it's truer to me than the words I use every day.  I've talked about you with certain stranger-type friends, more by impulse than consideration. Every time I do, I feel a bit better, but then again, I have only uttered half truths, and being the only person who knows the nonfiction is sometimes too much of a burden to bear.
 
What I do not say, I keep in my back pocket, until I take it out, cupped in my hands, and press my ear against it - to listen ...

Out of the radio silence is a small, insignificant voice - fragile, gossamer - uttering in full, complete thoughts to make up one thought:

If I keep this up, there will be nothing left.

I will have tired myself out.