I love the tales you spun for me

I am reading a book called My Beautiful Enemy now. On the bus tonight, I read the part where the hero was entertaining the heroine with the story or Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. The heroine loved it. She loved it that the man cared enough to spin his tale; she loved it that she could relate to the story because of the wit and cleverness of the slave, Morgiana.

I alighted from the bus, missing you and the nonsensical tales you spun for me. I remember the last was about magic and penguins, probably.  I quite think now those two components were put together at my request since they are what I love. You told me that story as we walked in the mall near your house. As I walked home, I relieved that memory and felt amazed again at the ease you can weave together a silly tale. I love your imagination and love it the tales you told were for me. I wondered in my footsteps home, when I’d ever meet someone who would tell me stories again, and grew scared because the only males who attract/interest me seem to originate from animes or the books – they are fictional.

Tonight after my bath, I sat on my bed to continue my read. It got too hot and stifling. Influenced by the dead character’s love for Darjeeling in the book, I felt warm and thirsty and propelled to get a cup of tea too. I made myself some green tea, and sat down on the wooden chair to write this. On the television was a news report about angry Hong Kong students. I stared at the umbrellas crashing together on television but in my head was your voice. You loved telling me ghost stories before we slept. I paid as much attention as I could initially, but after that I simply enjoyed the sound of your voice as I fell into sleep. My thoughts floated to another story you told me – but it was also one we created together.

I was a forest wood nymph and you were a giant who was threatening the existence of my forest. In order to save it, I had to consent to save you by giving you a rare remedy found in the unicorn which lives by the lake in the forest. I was reluctant to give you the cure as that implied I had to shed my unicorn’s blood. The story grew more ridiculous and I was clearly losing because you always had more imagination. We ended up in hearty guffaws in the mall. I was near tears. I remember being happy and carefree. It was a short respite from the weight we had in our hearts.

I’ll return to my book now and share the heartaches and joy of the heroes. If I can’t feel joy for myself, then let me feel joy in words and others who exist in another world.

It is definitely cooler in the living room. I will spend some time here tonight.


Flashbacks (well, the sad ones)

Flashbacks are funny things. They lie in a dormant disguise of memories and emotions buried, an inert but silent ache that stays constant, as sure as the heart which beats with each passing second. So long as they remain unearthed, they are deceptive liars that mask themselves with Time. For a moment, you whisper self-assuredly, I’m okay, I’m alright.

All it takes is a certain line, a familiar scene, a random tune you hear as you walk down the street, a picture that slides pass your scrolling thumb – that cause what you’ve kept inside to unravel. Like a sneak attack, memories start to flash by, a conflict of sadness, pain, and happiness you felt at those memories entwine and resurface – you smile wistfully and gaze into the distance.

And then you panic. Your mind swerves sharply into chaos. Because this was unplanned. You thought you were fine. You start to hurt. You don’t know what to do with the pain and wish yourself curled up on your bed at home.


Flashbacks. Sneaky little things they are.


I’ll be okay, I’ll be alright.