The glorious and triumphant return of now-19 year old Blogger, the revival of a once-grand and dare I say influential webspace that produced daily content, and the crippling anxiety of a young woman who no longer has any time or motivation to write, and feels like any ability she had acquired in the past through repetition and sheer will alone is now slowly slipping out of her grasp. Brief history of the Blog and Blogger can be found here.

Here be personal journal entries, observations, slices of life, questions and conclusions, as well as exploration of social and political topics seen through the lens of a Malaysian Muslim, feminist, lesbian, Marxist, and horse enthusiast.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Tomorrow I'll Love You

It's the flashbacks. 

It's the start of rebellion, the saying no, the hiding in the closets and under beds and waiting for someone to find you and striking back when they do. It's the visits to private schools and the actual consideration and the spelling test taken away from prying eyes. It's the instant recognition, the paint buckets and the jokes, the counselling sessions and the cats and the sitting on the swing, sitting on lawn chairs and sitting on staircases. It's the letters in the mailbox, the cycling around the neighborhood and the lies piled on top of more and more lies piled on top an original lie. It's the coming of age, the finding yourself, the butterfly stepping out of its chrysalis, the bird's first flight, first plummet to the death. 

It's the start of something terrible, the bite without the sting, the words without the power, the bitch without the backup band. It's the seventh grade equivalent of the word bitch, and the secrets thrown all around behind your back. It's the diaries brought to school, his laughter and the jokes, the secret smiles, the longing looks, the words said just to get a reaction out of someone. It's the meanest girl telling you you're not loved, the choice, the if you want to be friends with me then you've got to stop being friends with her. The indecision and the moving, the cat running across the street and the sleepovers and the lies and even more secrets. It's the backstabbing and the lying down on the mattress, the heat and the curtain clipped shut. The unfamiliar environment, the slap to the face, the locking of doors. 

It's the days of going away and falling down on chairs and fake letters and fake denials. The lies and even more secrets, the falling down, the new people, the old people and the fake infatuation. It's the daydreams clouding every perspective, the popularity contest and the bottom of the pile, the voting system and the no hands up. The loud and shrill voice and the waiting outside the library. It's counting the number of times the fan swirls, the number of raindrops to fall from the sky and the number of excuses you have to make. It's the shouting hello from across the hall, the goodbye to forever and the tears and the lies and the he said he's sorry but he's really not. It's the oh my God of primary school, the signing of farewells, the hugs and the tears and the I'll never miss this place again. 

It's the pain of long lost friends and the pain of new ones. The irritability, the fight, the power struggle, it's everything you've ever wanted to be but can't. It's the constant and heavy handed name dropping, the decline of mankind, the shadowed perspective of teenage life. It's the buzz of gossip and the flicker of hate, the start of new friendships and the cancellation of dates. It's the call in the middle of the night of darkness, no power and no lights, no electricity and no life outside of what we knew. It's the secret thrill of keeping you away from others who could hurt you and the surprising jab of emotion at every turn of the table. 

It's the confusion and the liars and the calling people liars and it's mind over matter, staircase conversations, it's a possibility, it's me waiting for you and waiting for you next door and hearing you and feeling you on every fiber of my skin and you never looking at me at all. It's the feelings I feel for one person, retaining feelings for another. It's the coming back into my life and telling me I'm unworthy and telling me I don't care and it's me yelling at you that I do and proving to you what? It's me and you and a table, a television screen and a half dozen people and it's the wish in our eyes that something would never happen the way it was supposed to happen. It's the stinging goodbye, the floor, the fan and the air around us, thick with things that would never happen, hands touching and holding and we'll never see each other again. It's the fact that you of all people should understand because you know everything, the dreams and the karma, the waiting around inside the prefects room, and telling me in no words at all that you will always be there for me, it's the gazebo outsider driven conversation of a resounding no. It's the prefects room again but this time we mix and the papers between us and the work and the electricity and the everything was enough. It's the shower floor, the cold hard tiles, the bed and the cold air and the pressing feeling and the shout. It's the day that it all ended and we left it like that, unfinished food, buttons, coins and goodbyes. 

It's the start and I'm telling you things I know I'll never really get a proper reply out of. It's the sadness in your eyes and the reciprocation of feelings and the cakes on the table and the phone conversations that accused me of things that never once crossed my mind. It's the huge mass of people and knowing that our eyes will never ever connect across the room again. It's the hugs and her perfume and your scent lingering in an air of hopelessness and nothing. 

It's my knees and the floor and the why and the what ruined you pretty girl? And my questions never answered because God doesn't work that way.

Because after all of that. Nothing. 

No comments:

Post a Comment