28-yr old nocturnal over@nal geekette Malaysian.
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Eyes Wide Close
Sometimes I think life likes to laugh at us after we've looked back in retrospect. The following is something I wrote in December last year, amidst a maddeningly short-lived romance. I look at the past not because I long for them. But because they've made me who I am today, for tomorrow. It's when we can do that, that we're no longer blind. Seeing is beyond what the physical eyes show us.
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I believed that destiny, and the universe colliding were just romantic stories. Stories that would never breathe for me. I was too cynical and grounded for them. Even though my heart craved it so much, my mind held every sane neuron in its defence.
I am a product of romance. A flower child of love from two committed seas. How can I not believe in destiny? It lives in my blood. And yet, I deny it. I deny its existence by holding back. Guarding my heart with clay and granite walls. In layers.
So many times, I tried building little windows, only to cement them when the winds relented. My wall is patchy and ugly, messier than before.
But the day had to come, when I took a peek and saw you walk in. I swear the walls came down, like it never existed. And suddenly I believe, destiny.
Why did the universe throw us together? Not once, but twice? What could it be saying to us? Why did time stop when you stepped inside? It stops everytime we're together.
Music plays in the background like a pre-arranged soundtrack. Helium balloons float by around us like a cheesy love story. People walk past us like we don't exist.
Monkeys watch you, as you invade its space. Then they watch us from above, as though love is a stage. I want to scream, "Where are the cameras?!"
And you tell me, I am the writer, the director, the producer of my own destiny.
But I say, "We don't write each others lives and dialogues. We don't get to say what other people should say, and how."
Our writers are fucked up. Yours, a chain smoking recluse. Mine, a manic depressive romantic. They collaborate on an unfinished script. Only to fall in love with each other and they finish in a tragic Bonnie and Clyde ending.
Who is to write our stories now? A 19th Century rebellious Bohemian, and a no-nonsense New Jersey-ian. The worst combination. A potential stabbing in the making, you say. But it might just work out. It might just be the next Tarantino and Thurman, Peter Sellers and Spike Milligan, Rodgers and Hammerstein. I doubt.
But how can I, sitting in the most surrealist moment not even Christopher Doyle can recreate? Drinking, dining amongst the misty trees. Listening to you tell me, you see me in your life in 10, 20 years from today. But you don't know how, why.
Why? Why! Why.
Do we go on questioning, and not deciding? What is our destiny?