Perspective.

I have done many things that I regret in my relationship. And now when I look back on it I wonder. Was I really that person? Was I so comfortable in it that that was the real me?

Looking back now I can't seem to believe it. But perspective shifts. And now it has shifted back to a place I haven't been in 2 years. And it is with a heavy heart that I look back at the things that I have done. The way I behaved.

I was good. I was plenty good. And no one is without flaw. I recognize that. And I am not aiming to be perfect. Just sometimes I feel like I was foolish. I behaved rather foolishly. Rather immaturely. But maybe that is who I am.

I was a different person. So different now and then. Perspective changes.

~ When the wind is blowing in your face, and the whole world is on your case. I could offer you a warm embrace, to make you feel my love ~

Why Do I Write Now?

I haven't written in a long, long time. Why do I write now? Is it because I have fallen so far that I have resorted to previous haunts to sort myself out somehow? Does my subconscious feel desperate enough to reach out into any foothold it can grab onto be it something outdated and found in the habits of the past?

Why did I not write then? Why did I stop? ... Maybe it was because I was happy. And happiness does not need an outlet. It just leaks out of every single thing you do, like barely contained rays of light. Because happiness is not a lonely thing; it is not confined to the solitary spaces of your mind where they fester and beg for an outlet that is not so personal yet personal enough. Hence, writing.

Why was I reluctant to continue? Why did I associate writing as an act of the fallen? Maybe because I did not like the darker spaces of my mind it brings me to. The sordid, melancholy, convoluted spaces where ideas twist and form into something that looks nice on paper but not in experience.
Maybe because I am disgusted by the habits and the mentality brought on by this activity of writing. Makes us feel like we are smarter. Makes us feel more superior somehow and in that we dwell, whether we know it or not because the expression in written form is a skill that must be good to possess. Makes us overthink things and in doing so, keeps us writing about it, thinking about it, instead of feeling it. Feeling in its purest form, uncontained by mastery of language, no matter how fluent.
Maybe I associate it all with darker days. Days when my written word was my only companion and listening shoulder for I felt like I had no one to talk to and no one to share with. Maybe it reeks of that sense of loneliness I carried around with me like a cloud and I don't want to admit that it's back. The heavy, oppressive disconnection.

Then why do I write now? God knows. Why do I write now? Because I suffer a broken heart which is while insignificant, is significant enough in the history of any man's life.

Why is there even a chance that this time could be different? There is no chance. I highly doubt that it's any different this time,

So why am I cataloguing insanity this time? Because I let one person open the floodgates and open up a very dangerous part of a person. Especially dangerous to one who has stupidly decided to seal theirs for whatever insane, cowardly reason there was. I let it happen and it happened and I changed. I became someone else and while I cannot be sure that someone else is a good someone else, or even an improvement from the previous, the changes happened and I just rolled with it. It was a good place. It was a nice, safe place to be where while one may still have one's problems, it was a good, safe place to try to fix them. In the embrace of a welcoming and understanding influence. Where one feels accepted and loved.
But it ended. And now everything is clattering in there because the one string that held them all together, the new improvements, the one thing that made them made sense and seem worthwhile has been snapped and everything clatters around in the mess. Where do I find what belongs where and how do I put it all back together in a good and coherent manner? Especially when the mess is so large and unprecedented that I trip all over myself trying to sort things out.

So why do I write now? God knows. Maybe I just need a way to help myself.

I learned today. That love can be difficult.

I learned today. That love can be difficult.

It is not the ideal that we write, sing and talk about or hear, watch and read about. I don't know if it ever was or if it ever will be.

Not to say that love isn't all those things and more. I'm just focusing on the "and more" part. Because it is not the ideal when we take a closer look at all the "sordid details". That's why they're called sordid details. They just ruin the ideal somewhat.

And love being an abstract concept, cannot logically, be blamed. It's a beautiful thing. It gives joy, meaning and humanity.

But it can't be the ideal. Because we are only human. And misunderstandings happen. Problems happen. Oversight happens. Life happens.

We sail past each other every day like two ships passing in the night, and where things get lost is where the missing pieces of the ideal go. We see what we want to see, what our paranoid minds tell us to see, what our truthful hearts tell us we must see. And in those gaps of understanding, where we misunderstand each other, where the heartache happens and the blame runs either way; where it is so that each story has two sides to it. That is where the ideal fails to materialize. And that is where the missing pieces go.

Love Is A Many Splendoured Thing.

We sat in silence around the wooden coffee table, each not really looking at the other. The tension hung heavily in the air as we somehow avoided each others' gaze, choosing instead to survey the wallpaper, the chai mug, or in Missy's case, the exit door instead of the others.

Mademoiselle sat languidly, still as a thin tendril of smoke curled tiredly up from her stick, poised unenthusiastically near the floor from equally unenthusiastic fingers, her expression tired and drawn.

Missy hunched into herself, quietly, her gaze fixed on the unmoving mug and I looked consequently from the table, to the wallpaper, to the wallpaper on the other end of the room, back to the table and so on. Finally, I took a deep breath and broached the question that waited expectantly but which none of us were too eager to discuss. I myself for one, did not know where to start.

"Do you think we're in over ourselves?" I asked.

Mademoiselle sighed but said nothing. Missy lips turned down in a sad frown and she looked like she was about to cry.

I sighed. "Look, this does not have to be difficult. We can work things out. What're we doing here?"

More silenced. I waited impatiently as the seconds ticked by. I did not like the waiting, the uncertainty. My impatience grew till I moved restlessly in my chair and the others must've sensed it. We all knew we had important matters to discuss.

"We may just be," Mademoiselle admitted at long last, raising her hand to rub her forehead slowly.

Missy just wimpered and looked sad.

"Sometimes I wish I was back to where I was, when I made decisions solely for myself and I considered no one in making them," Mademoiselle said. "I'm not cut out for this. Maybe I've gone too long without, but I for one was happy where I was. You on the other hand..." She looked at Missy.

Missy looked up and said softly, "I felt like I needed it. It was just something that was never there, always missing."

"But I suppose it's caused us more misery than it has joy hasn't it?" I offered at last.

"Well if it causes this much misery, why have we not let go then? Relinquished it and went back to the way we were?" Mademoiselle asked pointedly.

Missy looked in agony over the turmoil of emotions within her. She hadn't the answer for it, and she knew that. They turned to me.

I hated it. I absolutely despised it so. The helplessness, feeling like I was stuck in the rut all over again, only of a different kind this time. Cycling through one rut after another, never really finding peace and solace anywhere that didn't yield to the battering of doubt, despair and uncertainty.

"Because we know it could be good. It usually is. For other people. Just that somehow, it cannot be for us. Not now. Not yet perhaps. And we are now afraid to go without it, having had it. It's just that sort of an addictive thing isn't it. Maybe it's the idea, planted by so many years of conditioning or maybe it is the truth of the human condition, but we just cannot really live without it. Some might be able to. We aren't ready to take that leap off. We are afraid, we are as always, uncertain but despairing at the way things are turning out and going about."

They both looked at me. "So what do we do now?" Missy asked.

"We soldier on. And maybe someday soon, we'll find a way to deal with it and we'll be all the more better for it. This upheaval, it is strange, it is unusual, and it is highly uncomfortable. But we must choose to believe that in the end, it will all lead to something good," I answered.

We've always had our set ways, all of us. And nothing had changed in a long, long time. I suppose when it did, we all just didn't know how to deal with it without getting lost within and without ourselves and losing ourselves. But things have to change, and in general, most would say they have for the better. It is a good change. A positive change. One cannot stay stuck in that same stage of life forever. So reluctantly sometimes, we all move forward. And we stumble, and we fall. Some more than others. But I do hope we will find our bearings and stand proud and sure again soon. We most certainly will.

On Weighing The Pros And Cons Of Denial.

It has always been a given, that denial is bad for the situation. And it does nothing to heal only to make things worse. And as a general rule, yes I do agree. It's true and it makes sense.

But there comes a time, when you see denial in quite a different light. It's a subtle experience, this. The time when you feel the fear creeping in and you don't wanna admit it. When you get the silly notion that somehow admitting to it will only confirm it and make it all the more real. Maybe if I ignore it, it'll just go away or it'll never actually fully form and materialize.

I refer to it here in particular to thoughts and feelings. Does writing it down and/or saying it out make it all the more real and encourage it to shape and take form? Does acknowledging it means closing the door behind you and creating a point of no return per se? Does it make a difference not to then?

This of course, is denial. You fear feeling it so much that you just don't wanna admit it to yourself. So does not actually talking about it or really acknowledging it keep the door open for you step back to the safe zone before you started getting these pesky thoughts and feelings? Or is the door closed anyway the moment you realized or suspected that this is what you're thinking or feeling?

I guess it depends on who you are then. On how you function. It seems this way that denial, effective denial might actually be a skill. That if you're really good enough at it, then you might just be able to make it as if you never even thought about it in the first place and sidestep all the possible inconveniences that might occur.

Very useful skill to have, I must say. Hmmm... Interesting. *shrugs* I had hoped to be able to come to a conclusion on this, but I suppose all I have right now is a hypothesis.

The hypothesis being, if you're really that good at the art of denial then, yeah it might actually be beneficial because it'll actually serve the purpose it was meant to serve in the first place. But if you're not quite so adept at it, then the hell, it makes no difference. See, this is where it gets complicated. The moment you realized it was when you stepped past the point of no return, and no amount of supressing it or talking about it is gonna really make it go away. BUT, talking about it, discussing it freely and announcing it to the world and to yourself might give you the feeling that you're free now to expand on this feeling that you wanted nothing to do with in the first place. And that might lead to actually encouraging it. So... Acknowledgement is ok, in moderation? Oh shit.

Now that didn't really make things any simpler now did it? *smiles*

Why Do You Make Me Feel, Like I've Got To Be Made of Steel?

I sat with Mademoiselle the other day and together, we sat in silence. She stared into the distance vaguely, only dazedly, out the sunlit window and the light fell on her face. A long tendril of smoke curled slowly upwards from her stick which she held away from her body, her arm draped over the side of the armchair.

“Why does he got to say that?” Mademoiselle demanded of me savagely, her attention fully turned on me.

“Why does he got to say that! It’s not true I tell you! I have got no emotions and that’s a fact. Why does he got to say all those lies about me?”

“It’s true, Mademoiselle,” I said slowly and evenly at her.

“It’s not true I tell you! It’s all lies! I’ve got no feelings and no one can say otherwise!” she spat in disgust.

I kept silent and held my gaze upon her.

She could see it in my eyes, in the melancholic weariness with which I surveyed her. It was a heavy glance, she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Mademoiselle bristled with indignance. “I’ve not got it! I don’t!” she shouted at me with anger. “Why does he got to say that I do!” I could see her eyes glassing over with moisture as she shrieked at me.

“Why does he have to dig up all these things. I don’t got it, I’ve nothing to be dug up!” the tears welled up in her eyes, angry and possibly, heartbroken.

“Why does he gotta say that?” she slumped defeatedly back into the chair.

I sat in silence throughout her outburst, keeping my gaze lowered somewhere around her waist. She looked by far the most ruffled I had ever seen her. Indeed, I have never seen her with a hair out place before. She was always immaculate, impeccable, arrogance and steel. But today, she was just a little bit disconnected.

The silence lay heavy upon us and I watched a solitary tear slid down the corner of one eye, making a single passage down.

Still I held my silence. And we remained there, with the both of us sitting opposite each other across a small, round coffee table. I sat upright on my armchair, my fingers crossed in a steeple in front of my face, my elbows braced on the armrests, and she, slumped low and curled up slightly sideways in hers. Light stirs of smoke drifted upwards, almost immediately dissipating into thin air from the burnt through stick which lay forgotten on the floor.

Still I held my silence.

What Andrew Said.

"He said I changed."

Mademoiselle and Missy looked at me from across the circular table.

Mademoiselle was sitting with one leg crossed over her knee, the stiletto heel of her boots jutting out pointedly as if to stab at the air. She regarded me with a sideways glance and a small smile that bordered on a slight, albeit friendly, sneer. One hand resting lightly against her chin.

Missy just looked at me earnestly, her eyes expressive, a cocktail of thoughts brought on by my announcement.

They had an opinion, these two.

"So what do you think about that?" That was Missy.

"What do I think about this..." "I think he's right." I shrugged. "I just don't know... what to make of it. You guys know what I mean."

Of course they do.

"I think you changed for the better. The old you was far too... Stupid. I mean, you were a pale shadow of what you are now! Barely even halfway there I think." Mademoiselle said.

"You had a milder nature back then," Missy bit her lip. "You're pink then when you're red now, in a manner of speaking. I mean, for the most of it anyway."

I told them that my friend had said I was better then, as a person. He said I was kinder, and basically... Kinder.

Mademoiselle snorted in disgust. Even Missy smiled.

"Granted he barely knew me, knows me. I probably put on a better social front then though. Or at least gave off a more "pushover" message."

"Look, you were less developed as an individual back then. Your world was a small town and your social circle was... Lacking. I'd say any change now is good change. You're becoming more of a person." Mademoiselle waved her hand with an air of finality.

"Well, yeah, but you did lose some things. For one, you yourself said you thought you were smarter back then." Missy interjected. "And you don't write anymore! That creative spark seems to have died out with you somewhat," she added rather pointedly.

I just nodded. They both had a point. We all develope as individuals through our experiences and exposure. I was a poor shadow of what I can be back then. Flailing to survive. Even now, I am barely half of where I can be, if I let myself. But that is another story for another day.

I scoffed. "I guess I was more interested in being 'smart' smart back then. Read more, remembered more. When I came to college I guess I had other things on my mind," I chuckled. "And that "creative spark" died when I began feeling like I was trapped in a glass jar and running out of air. Even now I am not entirely sure what really killed it. I just stopped being inspired."

"You lost your sense of wonder," Missy helped. "Back then even though you were from the inside looking out, at all the things you wanted to touch, taste and feel, you retained your sense of wonder at it all. Funny, I thought it should actually increase with you being 'out of the jar' now."

"In a way your spirit burned brighter then," Mademoiselle shrugged reluctantly. "Or maybe, without having a lampshade on it."

"Look guys, I like what I am now. It's not perfect and there're days when I feel that I wanna be somebody else as per the Pink song, but for all that I seemingly lost, let die or wither, I can't bear ever being the way I was back then. The thought literally gives me pain! I don't WANT to be the old me."

I sighed.

"I know I lost some stuff and maybe that flame, it did burn a bit brighter back then. I realize that whatever changed, it was not entirely for the better. Some were admittedly, not... improvements per se. But with every passing day, I am successively finding out just how stupid I was yesterday. So... that's at least good."

"Or just that your opinion changed". Missy added helpfully (not so helpfully). "Well I guess it can't all be good. No such perfect thing."

Mademoiselle was silent. Now THAT is unusual. We both looked at her.

She just lit a stick and exhaled leisurely, drawing it out as long as possible, before finally looking down at the both of us and saying, "You're right." "I think when you take it all together, everything included, you still come out on top. At the end of the day it's more good than bad."

"You didn't need us to come to that conclusion did you?" Mademoiselle narrowed her eyes.

I smiled. No. But having them helped.