i think i wrote better when my audience was myself

Friday, 18 May 2007

There’s this physical ache in my chest, it’s not excruciating painful, but I feel it now and again, and it makes me wince. Listening to the same song on repeat the whole day, I just can’t put it down. It’s quiet yet intense, sober yet poignant. Sad. The lyrics speak volumes to me, of unuttered words, of wistful regret. Do you feel the same? I once thought about the things that could have been, might have been. It is easy to brush off this unease and uncertainty. Dismiss them as nothing more than the colourful illusions concocted in a mind starved and wanting. Wanting of what, exactly, I’m not too sure myself. Of something more than this life. Minute, seemingly insignificant details affect me more than anyone would know. I mock myself silently for this weakness, vulnerability. And yet, I can’t not be affected. I wonder, was it me? I look back, analysing all in sight, pondering over the “what ifs”. There are too many “what ifs” for me to even scratch beyond the surface of.

It’s an instinct of mine. Old habits die hard. Thus I remain silent, time after time. It’s too difficult. The urge to retreat whenever anyone comes too alarmingly close. Sirens go off in my head, loud persistent warnings of danger danger danger danger. Stop it now, they tell me. It isn’t safe. You’re gonna get hurt. Don’t let them in. Oh yes. That’s right. They’re right. I wish I could be more truthful, but I’m not. I dare not. It’s easier to keep my silence and indifference. I know how to play this part confidently. I know I won’t mess up, I know what to do.

Sometimes I hesitate. The unsurety is telling. A slight falter, suddenly I’m at a loss and everything just seems to slip through my fingers like the trickling of sand, despite my futile attempts to grasp frantically at them. It feels like I’ve been unmasked momentarily, and i lose my composure. Stripped bare, everything I’m trying to hide is glaringly obvious. Flaws, ugly blemishes of fear, tangled confused emotions that’s been knotted about into a tight little ball so many times that I can’t find its end anymore. I’ve lost myself in this, somewhere under too many winding and overlapping layers of a facade, along with my willingness to trust and believe in childrens’ fairytales with happy endings. There will never be a “Once upon a time” that concludes with a “happily ever after”.

Maybe now, you’d understand the need for me to disguise my inadequecy, my fear of never being good enough, of getting hurt. There are too many things I could tell you but I don’t. Simply because I can’t find it in me to share these chokingly mushy soppy words and risk my existence as I am. This is not making sense. I’m not making sense. The world doesn’t make sense. Yet I find myself becoming increasingly desperate. I still cannot rid myself of this false indifference. At times it’s a meer paper-thin veil and I almost blurt out unthinkingly words that’d give me away. Did you know? I didn’t quite realise it myself. I’d almost tricked myself into believing my own little masquerade.

It’s just when the night gets quiet, and everything that seemed tangible and real in daylight crumbles steadily into fleeting shadows and dying whispers, leaving nothing but broken debris and desolateness.

All you can do is to wait for dawn.

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