Take two.

(From the Little Black Book)
Friday 24 July 2009 10.11pm Home

Scene 2

She sat at the stairs, weeping. Mourning. While her legs were swinging like a pendulum. Crystal drops of innocent tears moistening her swollen face, cleansing the molecular dirt away from the tiny holes on her facial surface together with the sufferings in her tiny fragile heart.

Her long thin fingers clinching in a piece of crumpled tissue. She used this already dampened tissue repeatedly to wipe away the tears pooling in her otherwise beautiful hazel eyes and down the cheeks.

Scene 3

The same scene kept playing for about half hour.

Weeping. Legs swinging. Tissue brought to the face to dry the tears.

Scene 4

At exactly half past eight, she glanced at her watch, cleaned off the final trace of the river overflowing on her cheeks, stood up and started walking away with a smile on her face.

Identity.

(From the Little Black Book)
Monday 5 October 2010 1.15pm, Immigration Office

There is a movie We do not watch, a song which We refuse to sing, a time which does not pass, a memory which are stalled away in a box bearing a sticker that says "Fragile". But sometimes We just cannot help it. So, drown in a sea of people, We start humming to the song which hurts us so badly and in the end, We asphyxiate.

We are addicted to the idea of Memory, aren't We? We keep revisiting the past every night and We play the same movie over and over as if by doing that it would glue the missing pieces together.

I keep asking why do We need to disappear? Why is there a yearning for a nomadic life? Is it because We want to continue our never ending quest for a place where We feel We belong or We simply ache to leave our trails behind? The trails that have stained the perfectness of our Lives.

Would we forever be Jean-Marc, trapped in a world thriving on the physical and shallowness? Or would We forever be Chantal, overcome by unbearable nostalgias of Ourselves? We would gladly follow each other's traipses like a spy lurking around the corner, no matter where We whirl to. If it is only that We believe the Stain is our one link to happiness.

I realise We are tired. We must be the most tired person now, playing catch up all the times. But playing catch up is what keeps us alive, no?

**********

"1221?"

"Yes," she answered resoundingly, with a wide smile on her face.

"Now you can haunt Whoever you want to."

A nice closure to a long exhausting day.

_____________________________
*In a cafe, Jean-Marc and Chantal sit next to a silent couple. After a captivating dialogue speculating about the causes of the couple's silence, Jean-Marc concludes, "Two people in love, isolated from the world, that's very beautiful. But what would they nourish their intimate talk with? However contemptible the world maybe, they still need it to be able to talk together."

"They could be silent," replies Chantal.

"Like those two at the next table?" Jean-Marc laughed. "Oh no, no love can survive muteness."

-Milan Kundera, Identity.

My Manna - Part I.

(From the Little Black Book)

Friday 20 November 2009 10.31pm The Libra.

It is cold out here tonight. The wind is blowing fiercely, slapping my bare face with no mercy at all. And I gaze long into the dark desolated skies, musing alone amidst the sounds of laughters which only succeed in making my mind drift further into your ocean.

"What does not remind me of You?"

I watch the thousands illuminating neon lights of a metropolitan city through my long matted eyelashes and I see You floating in the mist among the Bluebells. The view of your ragged face magnificent and loathsome. Your ample shoulder a mimic of Hercules shouldering a corpulent amount of a failed past.

Through the wet fishy air, I smell you; your audacity, intertwined with the femininity you try to hide so much. I close my eyes and swim in the ocean of your fragrance, your warm liquid washing me through, rinsing all the desires I have for you. I could stay like this forever, kiss your essence dry and never have enough.

A whisper.

Sometimes...

I think Heaven is overrated.