You're talking like you're in a sci-fi movie mash-up, she deadpans
But we are the stuff of movies, I say.
I don't want to be in a movie with you.
Why not?
I can't act.
Then be in a life with me.
You want me to date you?
I hate the word date. I would never want to date you.
What do you want from me?
Do you believe me now, when I said I was the one for you?
I don't know yet.
Is this not proof enough for you?
It's awesome, but I don't see how it's proof.
I can accept that.
I'm not saying it isn't proof.
Are you trying to run away from me?
I only want to care about myself.
I can live with that for now.
What I'm trying to say is I could care about you but I'm afraid to.
Have you cared about anyone else in your whole life?
No.
Then that's already good enough for me.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Friday night:
I am sitting high up on the concrete steps with G, with a cup of ice-cold beer in my hand, feeling the notes of music pierce right through me, the amplified reverberations from the electric guitars sending shock waves into the very core of my being. The night air is saturated with sound, the atmosphere is charged with electricity and heightened energy, it's like a thick dense blanket that envelopes me in a warm embrace. I watch the people around me get up impulsively to dance, they move forward to join the sweaty mass of bodies at the mosh pit, where they can yell out the lyrics and thrash their heads in utter disregard and jump around together in an alcohol-fueled frenzy of reckless abandon, without any inhibitions. I am in love with all of this, this is amazing, this is what being young is all about, this is passion, this is what it feels like to be alive and conscious of it like never before, to have the blood rushing in my ears, to feel my heartbeat accelerating in time to the music, to have my nerves tingling, sweat pouring down my neck, to have to yell out loud just so I can be heard over the music. Experiences like this are so hard to come by.
And then, afterwards:
We are sitting at a tiny coffee shop at Serangoon, sharing a plate of prata and teh-tarik. It's close to midnight, but most of the tables are still filled with people having supper. We talk against the indistinct, comforting chatter in the background, the whooshing sound of the cars speeding by on the main road, the sound of hot oil sizzling, the weary-sounding voices of the indian stallholders as they take orders. We talk about everything- about her internship, about university life and newfound friends, about God and faith, about music, about believing in ourselves, about our dreams, about our secondary school days and how we've changed, about the unknown possibilities of what the future holds, about identity and self-expression, about true love and the idea of soul mates.There is no awkwardness between us, and I love how comfortable I can be around her. It's like a ritual, these late-night conversations where we never run out of things to say. This friendship- it anchors me, tethers me down, and for that, I am eternally grateful
I am sitting high up on the concrete steps with G, with a cup of ice-cold beer in my hand, feeling the notes of music pierce right through me, the amplified reverberations from the electric guitars sending shock waves into the very core of my being. The night air is saturated with sound, the atmosphere is charged with electricity and heightened energy, it's like a thick dense blanket that envelopes me in a warm embrace. I watch the people around me get up impulsively to dance, they move forward to join the sweaty mass of bodies at the mosh pit, where they can yell out the lyrics and thrash their heads in utter disregard and jump around together in an alcohol-fueled frenzy of reckless abandon, without any inhibitions. I am in love with all of this, this is amazing, this is what being young is all about, this is passion, this is what it feels like to be alive and conscious of it like never before, to have the blood rushing in my ears, to feel my heartbeat accelerating in time to the music, to have my nerves tingling, sweat pouring down my neck, to have to yell out loud just so I can be heard over the music. Experiences like this are so hard to come by.
And then, afterwards:
We are sitting at a tiny coffee shop at Serangoon, sharing a plate of prata and teh-tarik. It's close to midnight, but most of the tables are still filled with people having supper. We talk against the indistinct, comforting chatter in the background, the whooshing sound of the cars speeding by on the main road, the sound of hot oil sizzling, the weary-sounding voices of the indian stallholders as they take orders. We talk about everything- about her internship, about university life and newfound friends, about God and faith, about music, about believing in ourselves, about our dreams, about our secondary school days and how we've changed, about the unknown possibilities of what the future holds, about identity and self-expression, about true love and the idea of soul mates.There is no awkwardness between us, and I love how comfortable I can be around her. It's like a ritual, these late-night conversations where we never run out of things to say. This friendship- it anchors me, tethers me down, and for that, I am eternally grateful
Thursday, October 6, 2011
I've been watching your world from afar
I've been trying to be where you are
And I've been secretly falling apart
Unseen
To me, you're strange and you're beautiful
You'd be so perfect with me
But you just can't see
You turn every head but you don't see me
I'll put a spell on you
You fall asleep
And I put a spell on you
And when I wake you I'll be the first thing you see
And you'll realise that you love me
Sometimes the last thing you want comes in first
Sometimes the first thing you want never comes
But I know that waiting is all you can do
Sometimes
I'll put a spell on you
You fall asleep
I'll put a spell on you
And when I wake you I'll be the first thing you see
And you'll realise that you love me
Monday, October 3, 2011
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