Your eyes. That look in your eyes.
I had wondered what would stare back at me, when I finally had the chance of looking you in the eyes again. I expected a look of haughtiness, of derision, of crystal confidence, as you sneer at me from the towers of your high castle.
After all, wasn't I the sullied one, the flawed one, the one fallen from grace? The one who had strayed from the path all honourable men take? The one not deserving of a second chance?
But I didn't see any of that. I only saw apprehension. The words of greeting you issued may have left your lips without a single stammer, but your eyes said it all.
Your eyes said, I can no longer bear the gauntlet of righteous anger. There is doubt.
The truth may never come to light. We may forever lack the necessary scales to weigh our relative culpability in this mad circus of events. But I look at what doubt there is that exists within you, and I chuckle at how this blight has afflicted us all.
No one is clean.
And it will do us all good to remember that, as we continue to endeavour for the restful sleep of the wilfully blind.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Bad Boy Complex
He said it with the most solemn of faces. "I want to smoke," he said, "I want to wear bling. I want to treat her like dirt. I want to sulk in the corner and be Emoboy. I want to be baaad."
Heh. Helllooo, Bad Boy Complex (BBC). It's been a long time.
You’ve witnessed the BBC before, I’m sure? It's a curious affliction that most commonly descends upon poor broken-hearted boys. Overnight, they boldly strike out in wild new tangents, doing things they wouldn’t ever have dreamt of doing.
The assumption, of course, is that chicks dig the Bad Boys, preferring them to the ones who are too δΉ–.
Interestingly enough, observe enough BBC-sufferers, and you’ll find that they rebel in eerily similar ways. And if you’re a BBC-wannabe, and have no clue where to start, you’re in luck.
Welcome to Hanting’s BBC Guide For Good Boys.
Smoking
This is probably your first resort on your journey to being a Bad Boy, on account of smoking being relatively effortless to pick up. All you really need is money, a lot of breath mints, and a blatant disregard for gross pictures.
Now, we’re all aware of the health risks involved, so what’s an intelligent Bad Boy to do? Simple. The idea is to maximize every single stick. And to do this, you have to remember, it’s not about the smoking.
It’s about being seen smoking.
So, you need to practice at home. Find a wall you are comfortable leaning against, and try out various ways of holding your ciggy. I recommend the Lolling Two-Finger Grasp, where your ciggy is hanging precariously from your fingers.
And when you do smoke it, dreamily half-close your eyelids. Exhale slowly, and flick ash away in a devil-may-care way. Heck, you don’t even really need to smoke! Just light up, and gaze longingly at some faraway point.
When others ask why you’re letting the stick go to waste, reply with some cryptic nonsense, like “From the ashes we are all born, true?” or “They do deserve the pay rise, correct?” Then go back to your ciggy while they shower you with respect.
Bling
Now, bling’s a little harder. By ‘bling’ I mean clothes, accessories, piercings, the whole lot. Now, short of paying for a makeover, it is vital that you seek professional help from friends.
Because, seriously, if you’ve been a Good Boy all this while, you don’t know jack sh*t about bling. There is no way you will be able to pull it off on your own. Not only is it already hard to know how to accessorize fashionably, but you’re a guy too, and that makes it doubly hard.
So, be humble. Ask for help.
You see, the secret is this… the bling’s got to match you. You can’t just assume that what’s cool on 50 Cent looks good on you too. A good friend will most definitely tell you when you look cool, and when you look like the village idiot – after all, he’s going to have to worry about being seen in public with you.
Just never, ever ask for your mum’s input. Please. Just say no. Her perspective is skewed.
Do you want to be as attractive as your dad?
Tattoos
With tattoos we clearly enter hardcore BBC territory. For goodness’ sakes though, considering that for most people the BBC is but a stage in life, please get small tattoos. The era of the large, ostentatious tattoo is long over, unless you’re trying to escape from a prison facility, in which case it’s damn cool.
As you can expect, the tricky part is in the choice of the tattoo. Needless to say, “Mummy Power Forever”, anywhere, doesn’t cut it. Nor do random animals in various states of aggression. Cheeky ones don’t help too, you know, the kind that goes “If you can see this you’re a lucky woman” on your… nevermind.
Don’t forget, less can say more. Go for cryptic, tiny yet highly conspicuous tattoos. Things like “Blinded” on your eyelids, or “Empty” in a gothic font just above your heart.
So what does your tattoo say about you? It says that at one point, you were delirious or troubled enough to scar yourself with an indelible statement. It’s as intelligent as having a permanent nick for your MSN… you know you will lose the angst one day, yet you still want an everlasting mark of it.
And that, my brother, is what earns you your respect.
Summary
The pinnacle of the BBC lies not in any particular activity, but in the attitude you possess. The ideal you’re striving towards, is the caged tiger. At times you will be normal, sociable, functional, but at others you can be dark, conflicted, complex.
But most importantly, never BBC allll the way. You have to be redeemable, flawed but still whole enough to be saved. For some inexplicable reason, there are girls who believe they can change wounded Bad Boys for the better, and will slavishly gravitate towards them.
Maybe it’s Nature’s way of improving the overall quality of the human gene pool, by making Bad Boys attractive only to certain girls. If so, heck, it’s not working fast enough.
But, dear BBC-wannabe, I hope for your sake that your BBC phase passes soon. I maintain that guys who subscribe to the BBC lifestyle are motivated by a nagging notion that they are imperfect in some way, and that for some reason their relatively clean-cut lifestyle is the problem.
You know that’s not true.
Enjoy your BBC phase while it lasts. I’m pretty sure that when the clouds clear and the angst passes, you’ll find that you’re still most comfortable in your own skin.
(One day, I will write about the Good Boy Complex. Because, if you think about it, if good boys want to be bad after they undergo a breakup, wouldn’t Bad Boys want to be good?
Being a Good Boy is not that easy, and deserves a full guide of its own. If you're in dire need though, a good start would be petting a kitten everyday, saying “please excuse me” instead of “kn*bc*b blind ah f*x”, and not downloading any more albino infant elephant bondage porn.)
Heh. Helllooo, Bad Boy Complex (BBC). It's been a long time.
You’ve witnessed the BBC before, I’m sure? It's a curious affliction that most commonly descends upon poor broken-hearted boys. Overnight, they boldly strike out in wild new tangents, doing things they wouldn’t ever have dreamt of doing.
The assumption, of course, is that chicks dig the Bad Boys, preferring them to the ones who are too δΉ–.
Interestingly enough, observe enough BBC-sufferers, and you’ll find that they rebel in eerily similar ways. And if you’re a BBC-wannabe, and have no clue where to start, you’re in luck.
Welcome to Hanting’s BBC Guide For Good Boys.
Smoking
This is probably your first resort on your journey to being a Bad Boy, on account of smoking being relatively effortless to pick up. All you really need is money, a lot of breath mints, and a blatant disregard for gross pictures.
Now, we’re all aware of the health risks involved, so what’s an intelligent Bad Boy to do? Simple. The idea is to maximize every single stick. And to do this, you have to remember, it’s not about the smoking.
It’s about being seen smoking.
So, you need to practice at home. Find a wall you are comfortable leaning against, and try out various ways of holding your ciggy. I recommend the Lolling Two-Finger Grasp, where your ciggy is hanging precariously from your fingers.
And when you do smoke it, dreamily half-close your eyelids. Exhale slowly, and flick ash away in a devil-may-care way. Heck, you don’t even really need to smoke! Just light up, and gaze longingly at some faraway point.
When others ask why you’re letting the stick go to waste, reply with some cryptic nonsense, like “From the ashes we are all born, true?” or “They do deserve the pay rise, correct?” Then go back to your ciggy while they shower you with respect.
Bling
Now, bling’s a little harder. By ‘bling’ I mean clothes, accessories, piercings, the whole lot. Now, short of paying for a makeover, it is vital that you seek professional help from friends.
Because, seriously, if you’ve been a Good Boy all this while, you don’t know jack sh*t about bling. There is no way you will be able to pull it off on your own. Not only is it already hard to know how to accessorize fashionably, but you’re a guy too, and that makes it doubly hard.
So, be humble. Ask for help.
You see, the secret is this… the bling’s got to match you. You can’t just assume that what’s cool on 50 Cent looks good on you too. A good friend will most definitely tell you when you look cool, and when you look like the village idiot – after all, he’s going to have to worry about being seen in public with you.
Just never, ever ask for your mum’s input. Please. Just say no. Her perspective is skewed.
Do you want to be as attractive as your dad?
Tattoos
With tattoos we clearly enter hardcore BBC territory. For goodness’ sakes though, considering that for most people the BBC is but a stage in life, please get small tattoos. The era of the large, ostentatious tattoo is long over, unless you’re trying to escape from a prison facility, in which case it’s damn cool.
As you can expect, the tricky part is in the choice of the tattoo. Needless to say, “Mummy Power Forever”, anywhere, doesn’t cut it. Nor do random animals in various states of aggression. Cheeky ones don’t help too, you know, the kind that goes “If you can see this you’re a lucky woman” on your… nevermind.
Don’t forget, less can say more. Go for cryptic, tiny yet highly conspicuous tattoos. Things like “Blinded” on your eyelids, or “Empty” in a gothic font just above your heart.
So what does your tattoo say about you? It says that at one point, you were delirious or troubled enough to scar yourself with an indelible statement. It’s as intelligent as having a permanent nick for your MSN… you know you will lose the angst one day, yet you still want an everlasting mark of it.
And that, my brother, is what earns you your respect.
Summary
The pinnacle of the BBC lies not in any particular activity, but in the attitude you possess. The ideal you’re striving towards, is the caged tiger. At times you will be normal, sociable, functional, but at others you can be dark, conflicted, complex.
But most importantly, never BBC allll the way. You have to be redeemable, flawed but still whole enough to be saved. For some inexplicable reason, there are girls who believe they can change wounded Bad Boys for the better, and will slavishly gravitate towards them.
Maybe it’s Nature’s way of improving the overall quality of the human gene pool, by making Bad Boys attractive only to certain girls. If so, heck, it’s not working fast enough.
But, dear BBC-wannabe, I hope for your sake that your BBC phase passes soon. I maintain that guys who subscribe to the BBC lifestyle are motivated by a nagging notion that they are imperfect in some way, and that for some reason their relatively clean-cut lifestyle is the problem.
You know that’s not true.
Enjoy your BBC phase while it lasts. I’m pretty sure that when the clouds clear and the angst passes, you’ll find that you’re still most comfortable in your own skin.
(One day, I will write about the Good Boy Complex. Because, if you think about it, if good boys want to be bad after they undergo a breakup, wouldn’t Bad Boys want to be good?
Being a Good Boy is not that easy, and deserves a full guide of its own. If you're in dire need though, a good start would be petting a kitten everyday, saying “please excuse me” instead of “kn*bc*b blind ah f*x”, and not downloading any more albino infant elephant bondage porn.)
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Cryptic
I think the Era of the Unsophisticated Blog is well and truly over.
Just a few years back, blogs were backdoors into people's minds. Everyone splashed raw emotions candidly across their webpages, bouyed by the rush that full and frank disclosure brought. Blogs were public platforms that suddenly became accessible even to the layman, a rare commodity unleashed upon a hungry market.
All that changed as people gradually felt the ill-effects of putting their whole lives on the net. If you keep a blog, you would know what I mean. A myriad of things can happen... your pictures get pilfered and circulated, your posts cause misunderstandings, mere acquaintances start gaining access to your innermost thoughts and feelings.
That's why blogs are so different nowadays, at least amongst experienced users. Beyond the occasional objective record of an event, say a birthday party or a night out clubbing, it's really quite hard to figure out what any given blogger is really trying to say anymore.
Yes. It is with great satisfaction that I tell all of you, the ones who always accuse me of being overly cryptic, that you can hardly find a blog out there that's not cryptic anymore.
If you approach blog-reading the way you do literature, there are indeed tools available to enhance understanding. You need:
1. To know the blogger's background, especially of his recent history
2. To know his desired audience
3. To have read enough of his posts to recognize patterns and styles
Basically, no one has time to do any of that. So, in effect, I think the large majority of posts go misunderstood, and hardly ever achieve their desired effect.
This creates consequences:
1. You can't read into someone's posts with any degree of certainty anymore.
2. You can't weave hidden meanings and messages into your posts anymore, and hope that that special target audience will understand.
3. You must be very, very careful about what you write, lest it be taken out of context (I think my friend Tris will understand this, haha)
Don't be mistaken, I'm glad that blogs are unreliable channels of communication. Humans were never meant to interact this way. We're supposed to size each other up, observe the hundred and one tell-tale body language signals, then decide if someone is telling us the truth.
We're not supposed to hop on someone's blog and hope to uncover nuggets of feelings or intentions or motives neatly ensconced in a few cryptic references. That's really a recipe for disaster in most cases.
That being said... I like being cryptic. And drama, evidently. =)
Just a few years back, blogs were backdoors into people's minds. Everyone splashed raw emotions candidly across their webpages, bouyed by the rush that full and frank disclosure brought. Blogs were public platforms that suddenly became accessible even to the layman, a rare commodity unleashed upon a hungry market.
All that changed as people gradually felt the ill-effects of putting their whole lives on the net. If you keep a blog, you would know what I mean. A myriad of things can happen... your pictures get pilfered and circulated, your posts cause misunderstandings, mere acquaintances start gaining access to your innermost thoughts and feelings.
That's why blogs are so different nowadays, at least amongst experienced users. Beyond the occasional objective record of an event, say a birthday party or a night out clubbing, it's really quite hard to figure out what any given blogger is really trying to say anymore.
Yes. It is with great satisfaction that I tell all of you, the ones who always accuse me of being overly cryptic, that you can hardly find a blog out there that's not cryptic anymore.
If you approach blog-reading the way you do literature, there are indeed tools available to enhance understanding. You need:
1. To know the blogger's background, especially of his recent history
2. To know his desired audience
3. To have read enough of his posts to recognize patterns and styles
Basically, no one has time to do any of that. So, in effect, I think the large majority of posts go misunderstood, and hardly ever achieve their desired effect.
This creates consequences:
1. You can't read into someone's posts with any degree of certainty anymore.
2. You can't weave hidden meanings and messages into your posts anymore, and hope that that special target audience will understand.
3. You must be very, very careful about what you write, lest it be taken out of context (I think my friend Tris will understand this, haha)
Don't be mistaken, I'm glad that blogs are unreliable channels of communication. Humans were never meant to interact this way. We're supposed to size each other up, observe the hundred and one tell-tale body language signals, then decide if someone is telling us the truth.
We're not supposed to hop on someone's blog and hope to uncover nuggets of feelings or intentions or motives neatly ensconced in a few cryptic references. That's really a recipe for disaster in most cases.
That being said... I like being cryptic. And drama, evidently. =)
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Appreciation
The day is often a blender of events, emotions, happenings, feelings. Life speeds by so fast that I find myself only reacting, rushing to keep up with the pace.
Fortunately, it so happens that the night is perfect for reflection. For that's when the world, or most of it, goes to sleep, and things slow down just enough for me to think about things.
And I'm often surprised at how much perspectives change after a little reflection. Joyful moments lose a little shine when I suddenly spot considerations that weren't there before, while sombre segments become more palatable when I manage to identify silver linings.
Most days, like today, I sleep well too. For there is much to be thankful for, no matter how much it doesn't seem that way at first.
I'm thankful for friends who gleefully join me in burying time capsules in town, who give wake up calls so that I don't miss breakfast with them, who don't mind trekking halfway across the island for supper.
I'm thankful for the little miracles, like meeting supportive librarians who help you loan 40 books at a shot, or like inspiration flowing at the right time so that certain stories can be told they way they deserve, or like Havianas mysteriously snapping so that you have an opportunity to maybe further a friendship.
I'm thankful for discovering that a nature trail I was looking forward to was closed off, and yet having an enjoyable enough time that it didn't really matter.
Count your blessings often enough, and you'll find that there's not much to regret at all.
Fortunately, it so happens that the night is perfect for reflection. For that's when the world, or most of it, goes to sleep, and things slow down just enough for me to think about things.
And I'm often surprised at how much perspectives change after a little reflection. Joyful moments lose a little shine when I suddenly spot considerations that weren't there before, while sombre segments become more palatable when I manage to identify silver linings.
Most days, like today, I sleep well too. For there is much to be thankful for, no matter how much it doesn't seem that way at first.
I'm thankful for friends who gleefully join me in burying time capsules in town, who give wake up calls so that I don't miss breakfast with them, who don't mind trekking halfway across the island for supper.
I'm thankful for the little miracles, like meeting supportive librarians who help you loan 40 books at a shot, or like inspiration flowing at the right time so that certain stories can be told they way they deserve, or like Havianas mysteriously snapping so that you have an opportunity to maybe further a friendship.
I'm thankful for discovering that a nature trail I was looking forward to was closed off, and yet having an enjoyable enough time that it didn't really matter.
Count your blessings often enough, and you'll find that there's not much to regret at all.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Video On Design Process
This is a quick plug for one friend I've not had problems keeping in touch with over the years. =)
Dot's over at Stanford doing a course on Creating Infectious Action, Kindling Gregarious Behavior (which you can find more info about here), and her team has created a really interesting video on the design process.
Yes, the design process. The process by which elegant practicable solutions are found for the problems that crop up in everyday life.
So do take a look at it! I know I managed to gain some insight as to how one can logically identify problems and then develop counter-measures.
Dot's over at Stanford doing a course on Creating Infectious Action, Kindling Gregarious Behavior (which you can find more info about here), and her team has created a really interesting video on the design process.
Yes, the design process. The process by which elegant practicable solutions are found for the problems that crop up in everyday life.
So do take a look at it! I know I managed to gain some insight as to how one can logically identify problems and then develop counter-measures.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Mr. Snuffles
07
You squeal with delight when you first lay eyes on me, and I reciprocate by falling in love with you instantly.
How does one ever forget an image like that? Of you running up to me, laughing as you wrestle me away from your mother’s outstretched hands. You are a sight, a little girl of 7 struggling to hold me up, when I’m almost half your size.
You fuss over me, and I can’t help but preen myself as you heap endearments on me. You gush about how my tail is frizzy, how I’ve got the softest fur, how my button eyes are already speaking volumes to you.
I think it’s in the way you hold me. It’s in the way you laugh, a hearty, innocent laugh that fills the house with warmth. I can’t help it if you inspire trust in me so very easily.
I stay awake that first night, just to watch you sleep. Time just doesn’t seem to flow anymore, and the bedside clock has the courtesy and good manners to signal her ticks softer. By the moonlight you look so very, very perfect.
You can’t hear me, but I’m holding on to you with my paws and I’m promising you, over and over again, that I will always be there to soothe away your pains, to comfort and guide you as best I can.
I belong to you, already.
14
I sit in your lap contentedly, as you scribble furiously away in your diary. Your tears are still hot against my fur, but they do not bother me.
You hold me up to let me see what you have written. I can’t read, so you say it aloud for me. I’m telling you to stop, that apologies aren’t necessary, but you go on anyway (you’ve always been stubborn!).
I’m trying to say, I understand. I know you wanted to seem like a big girl in front of your friends, especially around the boy you have a crush on. So I understand that when they found me on your bed and asked who I was, you casually said I was just some soft toy, like I didn’t matter to you.
You start crying again, burying your face in my side. I know you have recorded this incident in your diary so that you will never forget how important I am to you, but you know why it’s not necessary?
It’s because you have spent these past 7 years by my side constantly. I’m your confidante, your closest friend. You have shared your deepest secrets with me, and have always felt renewed with the silent companionship I offer. You have given me more than I could ask for, and now it is my turn to do something for you.
If what you need is space, to grow closer to your other friends, take it. Do not feel guilty about it. Love is letting go too, yes? I’m glad enough to know I can always cheer you up, make you happy. So, shoo!
21
You pick me up, squeal my name, and hug me tight, for the first time in months. And that’s when I know today’s the day you make your choice.
You have been deconstructing your room lately, packing it all up into little brown boxes. Some boxes are shoved into your wardrobe, but others are adorned with bright air-mail stickers and moved into the hallway.
You’re about to leave for a study program overseas, and I wonder which kind of box I will end up in. I’ve tried to ask you gently for some time, but you don’t really talk to me anymore.
I hate to admit it, but I miss you holding me to sleep.
Twice this past year you have let me comfort you, once when you fell out with your parents, and another when you failed a class test. Twice this past year did I feel needed, wanted again.
And twice this past year did I feel ashamed of myself, for being so selfish. For I have seen what an alluring, confident, successful woman you have become, and I know that asking you to love me like you did years ago, would only hold you back.
I’m proud of the way you are handling most problems on your own now. I’m proud of the close friendships you have cultivated with others. I’m proud of the way you stand on your own two feet, independent, strong.
My heart still aches, sometimes, when I see that you really do need me less, but I understand. It is necessary. I’m just not what you need now.
You slip me into a box, and slowly tape up the opening. I know then that you won’t be bringing me with you, for the rest of the box is filled with an assortment of oddities you won’t be needing overseas.
You confirm my suspicions when you shift the box a short distance, and then close the wardrobe door. As the sounds of you packing continue to filter in, I slowly let go of the hope I’ve been nursing in the bowels of my heart, and it floats away like the morning mist.
35 / 07
The sunlight hurts my eyes, as the lid of the box is pried away. There's a strange male voice in the background, and he wants me thrown out.
You do not listen (you never did!), and instead you lift me out and hug me. You have aged, my angel. There's a certain gauntness to your face I did not think possible before. What storms have you weathered without me?
It's a warm, familiar hug, one that I've not felt in 14 years. I hug you back instinctively, with love I've bottled up for so long, and I regret it at once. It hurts the very second that you disengage just a little too hastily, because I know you no longer feel the same about me.
"Mummy! Who is he!" I turn to see a younger you on the bed, jumping in excitement. She has your eyes, your hair, and most importantly your warmth. Before you can react, she has grabbed me away from you.
She engulfs me in a hug, defiantly staring you down. You disapprove, saying that I’m unclean (I take umbrage at that!), but she doesn't seem to hear you (it runs in the family!). She demands that you let her keep me.
I hesitate.
My heart's in pieces as it is. Can I really go through all this again? Of caring for her, living a life with her, only to see her grow up and walk away, just like you did? You have no idea how painful it is, to love someone with all your being, and then to realize one day that your love is simply not wanted anymore.
That's when she kisses me.
Despite what the male voice says about my thinning fur and loose stitches, despite what you say about me being old and dusty, despite her knowing that there are a thousand other prettier companions out there, she has kissed me.
"I love you, Mr. Snuffles. Will you be mine?"
I hear those words, and something in me mends. I think it may just be possible… for me to love another again.
You squeal with delight when you first lay eyes on me, and I reciprocate by falling in love with you instantly.
How does one ever forget an image like that? Of you running up to me, laughing as you wrestle me away from your mother’s outstretched hands. You are a sight, a little girl of 7 struggling to hold me up, when I’m almost half your size.
You fuss over me, and I can’t help but preen myself as you heap endearments on me. You gush about how my tail is frizzy, how I’ve got the softest fur, how my button eyes are already speaking volumes to you.
I think it’s in the way you hold me. It’s in the way you laugh, a hearty, innocent laugh that fills the house with warmth. I can’t help it if you inspire trust in me so very easily.
I stay awake that first night, just to watch you sleep. Time just doesn’t seem to flow anymore, and the bedside clock has the courtesy and good manners to signal her ticks softer. By the moonlight you look so very, very perfect.
You can’t hear me, but I’m holding on to you with my paws and I’m promising you, over and over again, that I will always be there to soothe away your pains, to comfort and guide you as best I can.
I belong to you, already.
14
I sit in your lap contentedly, as you scribble furiously away in your diary. Your tears are still hot against my fur, but they do not bother me.
You hold me up to let me see what you have written. I can’t read, so you say it aloud for me. I’m telling you to stop, that apologies aren’t necessary, but you go on anyway (you’ve always been stubborn!).
I’m trying to say, I understand. I know you wanted to seem like a big girl in front of your friends, especially around the boy you have a crush on. So I understand that when they found me on your bed and asked who I was, you casually said I was just some soft toy, like I didn’t matter to you.
You start crying again, burying your face in my side. I know you have recorded this incident in your diary so that you will never forget how important I am to you, but you know why it’s not necessary?
It’s because you have spent these past 7 years by my side constantly. I’m your confidante, your closest friend. You have shared your deepest secrets with me, and have always felt renewed with the silent companionship I offer. You have given me more than I could ask for, and now it is my turn to do something for you.
If what you need is space, to grow closer to your other friends, take it. Do not feel guilty about it. Love is letting go too, yes? I’m glad enough to know I can always cheer you up, make you happy. So, shoo!
21
You pick me up, squeal my name, and hug me tight, for the first time in months. And that’s when I know today’s the day you make your choice.
You have been deconstructing your room lately, packing it all up into little brown boxes. Some boxes are shoved into your wardrobe, but others are adorned with bright air-mail stickers and moved into the hallway.
You’re about to leave for a study program overseas, and I wonder which kind of box I will end up in. I’ve tried to ask you gently for some time, but you don’t really talk to me anymore.
I hate to admit it, but I miss you holding me to sleep.
Twice this past year you have let me comfort you, once when you fell out with your parents, and another when you failed a class test. Twice this past year did I feel needed, wanted again.
And twice this past year did I feel ashamed of myself, for being so selfish. For I have seen what an alluring, confident, successful woman you have become, and I know that asking you to love me like you did years ago, would only hold you back.
I’m proud of the way you are handling most problems on your own now. I’m proud of the close friendships you have cultivated with others. I’m proud of the way you stand on your own two feet, independent, strong.
My heart still aches, sometimes, when I see that you really do need me less, but I understand. It is necessary. I’m just not what you need now.
You slip me into a box, and slowly tape up the opening. I know then that you won’t be bringing me with you, for the rest of the box is filled with an assortment of oddities you won’t be needing overseas.
You confirm my suspicions when you shift the box a short distance, and then close the wardrobe door. As the sounds of you packing continue to filter in, I slowly let go of the hope I’ve been nursing in the bowels of my heart, and it floats away like the morning mist.
35 / 07
The sunlight hurts my eyes, as the lid of the box is pried away. There's a strange male voice in the background, and he wants me thrown out.
You do not listen (you never did!), and instead you lift me out and hug me. You have aged, my angel. There's a certain gauntness to your face I did not think possible before. What storms have you weathered without me?
It's a warm, familiar hug, one that I've not felt in 14 years. I hug you back instinctively, with love I've bottled up for so long, and I regret it at once. It hurts the very second that you disengage just a little too hastily, because I know you no longer feel the same about me.
"Mummy! Who is he!" I turn to see a younger you on the bed, jumping in excitement. She has your eyes, your hair, and most importantly your warmth. Before you can react, she has grabbed me away from you.
She engulfs me in a hug, defiantly staring you down. You disapprove, saying that I’m unclean (I take umbrage at that!), but she doesn't seem to hear you (it runs in the family!). She demands that you let her keep me.
I hesitate.
My heart's in pieces as it is. Can I really go through all this again? Of caring for her, living a life with her, only to see her grow up and walk away, just like you did? You have no idea how painful it is, to love someone with all your being, and then to realize one day that your love is simply not wanted anymore.
That's when she kisses me.
Despite what the male voice says about my thinning fur and loose stitches, despite what you say about me being old and dusty, despite her knowing that there are a thousand other prettier companions out there, she has kissed me.
"I love you, Mr. Snuffles. Will you be mine?"
I hear those words, and something in me mends. I think it may just be possible… for me to love another again.
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