50

I tried to hold it all in my head. Until I'm blue.

It's like those times we held our breaths underwater. Until we were blue inside.

I held it in my head, like a leaking water balloon, I reached home an hour later, that's the best I can do. No, that's not it. I went into the stores, into white light and pushing noises. The eleven o clock shoppers. I joined the queue and bought stuff I don't need. I bought a bagful of wafer biscuits I knew I won't eat. But it had to be done. Ritual is a ritual. When 63 died, bleeding his entire bed, I had spent the afternoon in the bar. Like everything worthy in life, self indulgence is a 12 step program.

At home in front of the computer, I unloaded and there was nothing. My head the size of a sunken balloon. All I could remember was the mixed emotions of relief followed by instant horror when he finally spoke.

I swore that was him speaking.

His first word after a 280 days of coma was his death rattle.    

Now I can remember that first time we met. He could walk then and he was in the isolation room. They said he's a bit crazy but don't we all? He refused to let the nurses shower him, so they get me, a dude. He's not crazy, towering and shaggy headed, but not crazy. In fact he's quite polite.

A while ago at his bedside where everything was ripped opened and him rattling for a good ten second, I could remember nothing. All I could comprehend is this thick muck of silence in my head.

On the train home I put on my ipod and tried to drown this fog of silence off. I can't. I'm defenseless even against myself. All I had were The Cure and Smashing Pumpkins.

For the longest time, I don't believe that this woman was his wife. She appeared only at the last two weeks. Spending 270 odd days with him, I had my doubts with her sudden appearance. But seeing her crying, calling and slapping his cold clammy torso, I believe she love him.

When the rest of the family came, the wailing imploded. Even that could not drown out the murky silence in my head. So I stood there and let both of the wailing and the absurd tranquility bathe me like how the sun and the moonlight do. I must have tell myself that I had in fact enjoy this. The hollow rotten bastard that seek pleasure through people's misery. I think deep down I have to keep telling myself I do what I do, so that I won't leave this job, or worse: join them and burst into tears.

Lean On Me Now

We are billed as the worst disaster as a couple.

We lost tons of stuff.

Always being shortchanged and taken advantage of.

We lag behind others in so many ways. We are not very bright and far-sighted.

We always get the worst bargain, worst quality of goods, worst service and worst luck among our friends.

Our strengths does not lend to compensate each other while our weakness combined and get blown up.

People actually afraid that we might:

A) Lost our baby.

B) Roll over our baby when we sleep.

C) Fall into drains.

But we truly love each other.

We will be happy even as luckless trolls, dumb and dumber and come what may.

We will be happy because in love nobody else exist.

If we are the world to each other than there is no such things as worst bargains or coming short in comparison.

We will be happy being just us.




 

Sleepless Tides

I wonder which is more taxing?

Guilt from harming others intentionally?

Or.

Guilt from harming others unintentionally?

Watling

Stumbled on an obscure movie at two am - The Oxford Murders starring John Hurt and Frodo. I thought Hurt was great so it's kinda disrespectful that I fastfoward the entire movie just to watch Leonor Watling as the busty nurse. Her angular feature appeals to me and yah, she has great knockers and stimulated several sex scenes with the ever deary Elijah Wood. I don't give two fucks about Elijah Wood. I slept throughout Frodo's scenes in Lord Of The Rings, waking up just to see Helm's Deep and that psychedelic eyeball in the air. How cool is that? Will never be as cool as waking up to Watling making breakfast for me in just an apron.

Falling Down

I Hitched A Ride With My Soul By The Side Of The Road Just As The Sky Turned Black

Wanna hear the saddest story, kids?

Here's one. And it's real.

I have a patient. Thirty plus. He has brain tumor. Now tumors are tricky sons of bitches, they are these ticking bombs waiting to explode in your body.

And it did to him.

He came in walking, smiling and talking to us. Then his tumor bled out. Now he drifting in and out of consciousness.

His wife was crying her heart out by the corridor when the surgeons told her that there was nothing they can do further. That western medicine was a cheap shot and there is nothing they could do. They could only make him as comfortable as possible.

That means loading him with inhumane doses of painkillers and sedatives.

The young wife stayed on. She was there for the entirety of the day and only went back home to shower. Eventually when she found out that she could sneak and use the patient's bathroom to shower, she gave up going home altogether. She wanted to be with him until his very end.

The cancer pain. It was a pain like nothing we have ever seen. The pain was so tormenting that it seems physically real. He would wring and groan to nightmares that were never there. He would pull his hair, his tubes and his wife, trying to defend himself from something.

The wife stood by him every moment of the way, called us up for painkillers, sponged him, messaged him and even once apologized when she has fallen asleep. That was four in the morning.

Every minute of his life, she fights to stay with him. Every single second she wants to be there.

What kind of love is this?

Today she was told that at best he would live for three months. She nodded her head and just went back to sat by her husband, pulling his hand over hers and slept on his shoulder.

Three months from now she will lose him forever. I kept thinking to myself that there are so many things I will be doing three months from now. I will get my house and I will be married.

And he will be gone by then.

Three months are just days away.

The Dreams We Have As Children Fade Away

I was doodling on the table while blasting away Oasis' Fade Away.

'What's that?' She asked about the music that bore clashing drums and crying guitars.

'That's Oasis.' I replied without looking up. I drew bugged out eyes, snapping my mechanical pencil leads in serial succession.

'So that's the band that you will be going to their concert this April?' She said, holding her mug to her lips. She was interested in what I do. That's rare.

'Yup.' I grunted without tearing my eyes from my doodle. I reached over for an eraser and decided to rub off everything.

'If you had like them so much, how come I have never hear you playing their songs before?' She exclaimed.

'What?' I spun away and looked at her. I'm offended, sort of. I'm like their biggest fan.

But she will never understand. My glaze soften and I returned my focus back to my drawing.

'Uh huh.' I grunted.

I have decided gingerly that I'm gonna elope with another female fan at their concert in Singapore this April.