I believe, that it is in everyone’s right to be happy.
I believe, that it is in everyone’s true will to be happy.
I believe, that you should fight for your happiness.
What I do not believe, is that you’d hurt the people you love in the process of doing so. Because really, at the end of the day, you’re going to turn around only to realise where I once stood is now replaced with a white flag, my allegiance to you forsaken.
And maybe then, with some humanity lost, you might still be happy.
You’re gone. You’re rightfully, honestly gone.
I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m sorry for all the times I walked away, I’m sorry for the only and final time you walked away, leaving me sorrier than ever. I’m sorry for the chances and time you have wasted on me. I’m sorry that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for never really knowing if I truly loved you, or just the idea of you. I’m sorry I could never give you the answers you wanted. I’m sorry that I allowed a man who saw my imperfections as only another reason for my perfection to slip away from my fingers. I’m sorry I didn’t hold tight enough. I’m sorry I held you too wantonly. I’m sorry I ever trusted a piece of my heart to you. I’m sorry I made the decision to head over to your place the other night. I’m sorry for discreetly, and very much desperately trying to sneak into your life again. I’m sorry if I ever hurt you. I’m sorry if I did so over and over again. I’m sorry I had the audicity to ask for a third chance. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough reason for a third. I’m sorry I only allowed you, or rather, the hypotheses of what we’d I’d have been like to enter my life. I’m sorry I lowered my guard right after you left, only to find out, this time – you left for good. I’m sorry I only learnt of your entireness when I realised you weren’t there anymore. I’m sorry I constantly scurried back there, expecting that it was only right for you to be there. I’m sorry there was such a hard place to be. I’m sorry you couldn’t have held on a little longer. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been lesser of an idiot. I’m sorry for interrupting your life. I’m sorry for breaking your heart. I’m sorry for ever telling you that I was any different from the other guys, that I would never do anything to hurt you. I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I didn’t think I’d be so incapable at loving somebody. I’m sorry you were so hard for me to love. I’m sorry for missing you. I’m sorry for once loving you. I’m sorry for making this about me, after all I’ve put you through. I’m sorry for being the selfish, jerk of an 18 year old I really am. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.
I’m so fucking sorry, it hurts me.
But this is it, I really need to let you go now. I need to stop keeping that space in me void, I need to stop walking home everyday, making a small detour by the void deck hoping you might be sitting there waiting for me so you can tell me it was all a mistake. You made a mistake and I’m no longer the mistake. I need to live my life now, and I can’t. I can’t when you’re constantly around, even when you’ve probably sliced the part of your life with me in it off yourself. I can’t not hate you for only making me realise I love you when you don’t anymore. I can’t. So, I’m sorry. I’m giving you up – every last memory and sore you etched in me, I’m giving you all up. I need to live my selfish, jerk of an 18 year old life without constantly to be reminded of you. I need to know I can, will and am perfectly capable of moving on. I need you to leave now.
So you, I’m saying goodbye now. I loved you once, but this is it.
This is goodbye.
I could be happy. I could be contented, jubilant for the sake of so many reasons and people. I could be lively and making merry with great company over alcohol and smokes. I could be all that. I really could.
But somewhere sunken deep in this hemorrhage of mine, I know, despite often refusing to acknowledge, I know so distinctively that I gashed my own gash, breached my own breach. I constantly allow myself to land in situations where I know hurt is of abundance. I didn’t make it happen, but I let it. I saunter the scorching dessert barefooted, climb the most barbed fence, all on purpose with the lucid knowing that I will, in one way or another, get flung into a series of damage.
It’s like a disease, this abnormality of mine. The need for letdowns, for love to lose it’s way, for friendships to bear burdens that friendships should never be allowed to, for the people I love to give me a reason not to reciprocate. The need to be hurt, to be hauled into a befuddlement of emotions. The need to squeeze every last tear out of my eye, the need to stop healing and start hurting all over again.
I don’t cast my mess of a life out to delve for pity, or a shoulder to lean on or any of that Hallmark crap for the matter. I just desire to be allowed a chance to sit back and savour every lasting moment of this affliction, to feel the soft jerks as the tears trickle down my cheeks and not be bombarded with questions. Because ‘Why’ will never have an answer, because I’m not in a hurry to know, and because if I ever do, it’ll mean I have to stop hurting and start healing.
So, no. Just, no.
The rain dribbled down the sides of the umbrella as I watched, at the same time careful not to step into any puddles. The night trampled on, the streetlights stood strong. I reached into the pocket for a cigarette, stumbled with my heavy fingers for a little. The road was scarce of life, except for a couple of cars spurring by with their headlights shining for their lives, followed by a prolonged silence. I stopped my feet as the rain slowly came to a halt, welcoming an undistubred tranquil. I tried to collect my thoughts a little, musing about the events this rainy Monday night saw. To no avail, apparently.
The uncovered hush of the night caught me in a trance. I started to wonder when was the last time I stood before all this tranquility and told myself “This is life. This is it.” I traced back from weeks, to months, to years.
Years. I amused myself with the extent. It’s been years. The amusement disappeared soon after as I realised how easily the term ‘pathetic’ could fit into my situation right now. I’ve been revolving in a revolution of shit for the past few years. With Jin Xian, the guys I used to hang out with, with the ”Breasties”, Karin, Yvette, Sheena, Allan and now this. For every person I ever loved, a wound I have never really forgave or forgotten was chiselled in, deep and bitterly.
The transition my life has witnessed ever since I was introduced to the term ‘hurt’ has felt like a lifetime, yet right now, the gaping truth I am forced to acknowledge is that I am barely through a quarter of my lifetime. Yet I feel as if I have seen so much, learnt too many lessons and lost too many chances to love.
I start to doubt if I had any right to accuse you of making a muddle of your life, for I do not see how I have made mine any better. But the night had seen enough guilt and doubts. I sloppily brushed the thought aside as I savoured the last few seconds of the placidity that laid before me, flicked my cigarette onto a nearby bush and advanced on this journey home, and beyond.
For some, buying everything off the racks of every store is considered a form of therapy. We know it otherwise as retail therapy. For others, binging on sinful, oil soaked food bursting forth with calories is their therapy. We find a peace of mind indulging in certain habits that most of the time, stray away from the norms of our everyday lives. We cope, we deal, and at the end of the day – take away all the flash and bang and therapy is really just a more intricate way of hiding the desperation that wallows in what we have resorted to.
My therapy? Long bus rides, empty and in the dead of the night. Plugged into my iPod, I become this person who cast loose any qualms of his surroundings knowing that he is somehow, safe and snarls up into a numb tousle.
I’m afraid. I’m really.. afraid.
I just had awesome sex with an air steward. It was sensual – his tongue, the way his body moved, the fuck music, the arched backs, the cum on my face, the loud, ungiving moans. It was definitely a great way to start off the day, morning sex and all.
Things couldn’t have gotten any better. And indeed, it really couldn’t.
Here’s the catch which I only found out in the midst of cleaning up (as always): HE’S FROM ****! (censored for the sake of fucker-fuckee confidentiality, in short: very, very bad news.)
Imagine mind-blowing sex = cookie. Insert menacing hand a.k.a horrible realisation around cookie. Cookie crumbles. Daniel in horror.
Daniel still in horror.
Recent Comments