And I’m staring at this mouldy ceiling, wondering whether any story will start outside of the room. The paint was ripping and the dust was settling in but you found art in all of the flaws, made meaning from all of its brokenness. I wonder whether that was why you saw something in me, because when you found me, you saw how I could be put together.
Maybe that was why I kept you near. Maybe that was why when time came, you didn’t leave like Winter but you left like a spring.
I hold comfort in these words, finally trusting that it was the right choice and the right time to throw in the towel.
Writing became like the book that you regrettably returned to the shelf. You have intentions to pursue it at a later date but that day slowly pushes itself farther and farther out until quite by accident you meet your trigger and you’re quickly drawn back.
I’ve missed it sorely but now that I am done with work, I’m back on track, my personal freedom feeling like the weight of gold in my hands.
In the last few months, life shifted gears and the hours in my day became a slow, standardised routine. Not the disciplined kind, but the boring kind; the kind frankly not worth writing about.
But several weeks of sleep later, I find myself in awe under the busy lights of Shanghai, taking a stand against their infamously icy temperatures amidst warm Christmas cheer. Armed with a furry coat, tall boots and most importantly gloves, the city I so eagerly wanted to take on is really starting to feel like home.
No story has power, nor will it last, unless we feel in ourselves that it is true and true of us.
– John Steinbech
They say that the eyes are skylights to the soul. No matter how trained in deception or even manipulation, the eyes will be the most honest expression of the inner self.
You can figure out exactly what a man is feeling through his eyes, even more so with the aid of his voice and his touch. They hold all the answers and little puzzle pieces you need to figure them out, to live just momentarily in their world.
Your eyes. Those dark, black eyes. I remember studying them hard, searching… Discovering those slight almost unnoticeable quivers of discomfort, the glassy twinkle of excitement, your infamous look of disbelief or the judgmental squint. And I could hear it too, hear the hollows in your voice as you breathed out past realities. You’d been changed and the taps that held your infinite memories had turned black and of course, you’d never let them run.
I kept staring and staring, only to realise too late that the door was closed and the blinds, long drawn. You gleefully kicked up the dust, clouded yourself in unfounded opinions and allowed ignorant bundles of words to exit out your mouth. It’s really almost a cinematic distraction to what is, except the truth sits right in front of you.
Those black eyes…
I can only imagine how battered you must have been to choose darkness, to create this internal fortress, turning your back to the entire world.