211

as usual i was staring idly out of the windows, the orange light on my i-pod shuffle flickering periodically and the tracks jumping as a result of a lack in battery power and me thinking, fuck. i'd thought i just plugged it into the damned laptop the other day.

the other day? which day? the days are flickering by, remnants of a life perhaps not lived. the morning is the same everyday - when i make it to the door, trudging wearily there, i'd think, how did i make it this far? referring to the distance between my bed and the door, actually.

most days i'm up long enough to see the hands of the clock merrily join together as one at 12. and most days i'd feel i've not slept enough since reality flickers with dreams and they come together as one to haunt my sleep. my lucid sleep.

i don't brim with excitement at the start of a new day. yet i'm past being angsty, jaded, cynical, squealing. i watch with an air of detachment. i recognise how certain things never change and i sardonically laugh at myself at times.

the bus sailed through routes familiar to me for the past 4 years and i was left thinking about how it was like travelling for 3 hours to-and-fro to a place commonly described as a god-forsaken place in the west for four long years.
and obviously now nothing's left of those 4 years but certain friends, memories that aren't tangible enough to remember vividly. like dredges in the mud. like sand weaving past your fingers when you pick it up.

my plant died the other day because my mother dropped the entire pot of it on the floor and i threw the pot away. at first there were three beautiful plants and then 2 died during december, suitably, i deem they died suitable deaths for reasons that only i shall know.
without a thought.
once i took them full of hope and ironically, i lost a friend on the same day that they were given to me. not even a year has gone by, but it was time to die anyway.

and i sailed past the first floor of what was thought of as a "shophouse" and the backdoor was left open, so the door-grilles served as a suitable frame for which i could peer through. but the moment was gone and i could see nothing.
and then i began to think of black.
black huge frames framing her face, blocking her eyes, the windows to the world, what i perceive the world with, leaving only pores, a tiny rosebud of a mouth, a nose dusted with freckles. hair flying past in the wind, a tribute to air molecules and the certainty that wind has a life of its own, without a doubt.
a black skirt that flies up in the wind, and perhaps that mango top that she regretted buying when it wasn't on sale yet. (it's all your fault)
end the piece with a pair of silver heels and she gets out of the car and walks in a non-descript manner. she puffs and lets the cigarette fall to the ground and steps on it with her silver heels and moves her shoes from side to side, with her sole still on the ground and the sharp end of a heel still in the air.
then a man enters the picture.

i no longer posses angst as a license to be silly, stupid or to indulge in vices. i posses a languid air that allows me to flit however, in my own thoughts.
i need a fix.

and for those who've asked why i've stopped writing, it's because i've not seen the need to. :)