……for the best of reasons.
Because I will no longer need the World Wide Web to stay in contact with my friends.
I’m going home.
For the next three weeks, real facial expressions will replace emoticons.
And I’ll be damned if I won’t choke down a teh-o limau ais or two just for the sheer joy of being back in town =)
To hold you in the crook of my arm, all rounded curves and glowing edges.
Still downy, still feathered with the untarred feathers of the wholly innocent.
Come, come.
Wherein lies the lie?
Within, for the body gives lie, with no issue without.
Could you genuinely be so obtuse?
Are you truly, unwittingly devoid of any inkling about the truth?
It could be. This could be.
Words fail me.
"So we don’t need to improve ourselves - let us all just lay down in the mud and wallow with the pigs and die OK?"
That was me, folks. Granted, it was a very, very irate me.
Complacency certainly comes easy when you have certain, suitable *cough*skewed*cough* points of reference.
Why bother aiming upwards and onwards when you can preen yourself on how well you’re doing compared to those far, far worse off?
The wind is begging to be let in.
It has been rattling at the doorknob, sliding sharp fingers between the louvred window slats all night.
And I am suddenly struck by the notion that it is not a house I am sitting in, but a sailing vessel, or the top of a very large tree.
Embattled, embattled.
What am I to do?
Update: I knew there was a reason I felt this cold. I intially thought it was just me running a temperature, but no, I have been disproved but none other than the venerable Bureau of Meteorology.
Today, being the coldest day in 80 years, saw BrisVegas hitting a low of 7 degrees, with a wind chill factor of 0 degrees. The cold’s a separate annoyance from the wind that’s going at a rattling 70km/ hour.
Holy cow - if there were cows unfortunate enough to be left out in the open, we’d be having frozen milkshakes. A friend in Toowoomba said the wind chill factor ran into the negatives in their neck of the woods.
Note 1
When you told me how you’d loved and lost her (again), I was reminded of Eurydice and Orpheus.
You did no wrong, for we all, at one time or another, look back to remember, to reassure ourselves.
We look back because we are loath to relinquish our love, whilst unbeknownst to us, love was slipping away - in front of us.
Note 2:
Uh-uh. There is no Izzy Stevens in residence here.
Ever.
Stevens is not in the building.
I feel so unwell.
The only thing that imparts any comfort these cold, cold nights is standing under the spray of a hot shower.
If my heating bills could withstand the strain, I would do that for hours on end. Drought and dehydrated skin be damned, I say.
For there is certainly something to be said for constancy.
A hot shower is a hot shower, whether you’ve had a good day or a very, very bad one.
Invariably during the course of the shower, the overwhelming urge to lay my head against the tiles and just be washes over me.
But I don’t do that, because it’s not done.
(This seems to be the unspoken, yet religiously-adhered-to mantra of My Family. The Mother did aspire to raise A Spartan and not An Emo, more’s the pity. The latter requires less conformity on my part)
Besides, if any part of my anatomy comes into contact with the tiles, it will only remind me that they need to be scrubbed and de-gunked. Pronto.
Sigh. The perils of having a pragmatic mind.
But even that small (okay, great) measure of comfort imparted by the shower can be marred by other things.
Things such as The Sister’s Dettol soap bar, smelling like an unholy cross between harsh green apples and industrial-grade antiseptic.
The Sister claims to have a liking for the scent of disinfectant, despite my protests that it reminds me of nothing but wound dressings, hospitals and public restrooms.
But hot showers, albeit Dettol-tainted, are still the antidote to this feeling of unwellness I am trying to banish.
I know it is foolish to think that mere water can vanquish this malady. To this I say: I’ll take all the comfort I can get.
For I know, all too well, what it is.
It’s something that’s happened before. I lived through it, came out on the other side wearing battle scars.
But how do you heal yourself of its poignant recurrence and whimsical whims?
How to prevent vertigo, that sense of falling over and over and over again?
There, I’ve diagnosed myself: Malaise of The Heart.
ps: How can a song called Happy Ending be anything but?
I heard a snippet of it at work today over the fuzzy speakers, came home and was sufficiently intrigued to track it down and download it, only to find it really should be re-named (Un)happy Ending. WTH.
I’m still in love with the tune though =)
pps: I’ve just discovered that (Un)happy Ending precedes a hidden track. A hidden track with even more melancholic overtones, if that is possible.
I did find it a little strange that one song could run for an entire 10 minutes and 23 seconds.
Easter Egg woot! At least Easter Egg that required no effort, no code-input, no special trick on my part - LOL!
ppps: No, Dear Sister, I do not think Mika sounds camp. So he sings in falsetto - last time I checked James Blunt did the whole squeaky-weaky thing too.
But you didn’t call him camp now, did you? *winks*
It’s just disrespectful, you know?
Behind the rain
On the other side of the sky
Jonathan Strange
Instead, I am here.
Oh, freedom, it has been too long since I saw you last.
