Ah he left. Remnants of our little past flit my way and lodge themselves as a lump in my throat. I was forced to turn mute as he left, with my footsteps taking me to arms of another. I have not been able to not think about him, and I wonder had I say yes, had I been brave enough, could he be my midas, and I, his? As we bid our half-hearted farewell it felt incomplete. Like that very night, we smoked under the dancing light, in the rhythm of thumps, hums and off-beat harmony. We shared memories, dreamed of future adventures, and wandered in and out of blissful delirium. In that instance I wanted to tell him that I wanted him, but that lump in my throat turned me mute. Do I turn this friendship into something more? Will it elevate, or will we sink? Ah well, he left for the east, and I, will be, to the west. My heart follows him, in little steps. Perhaps one day I shall see him, in a African summer, in a Peruvian village, in a Nepalese hike, and back to the land of tiger where it begins.

India was a tumultuous temptress. There wasn't any moment that I didn't want to inhale the beauty of our mismatched universe into my tiny, untrained mind - this country has not grown wise with age, it toys with dirts, it is in despair and the city smells rotten. The air is full of sickness, spreading poverty and desperation. In my eyes, India was beautiful. Here lies the underbelly of ancient civillization, it housed many emperors, their golds, their women and their slaves, in a white palace, in an amber fort. Now they are enslaved by modern currencies, their distant past, once glorious, has dissipated into the musky air of Delhi. Money is powerful here. People beg, harass and hassle - I had to admit I found it irksome initially. A child begged me for food. I bought him an ice-cream and it brought him a moment of happiness for a mere fifty rupees. Then he asked for more money. I walked away, my heart sank heavier and my mind's a mess. Do I feel empowered to rescue him? Do I feel extremely priveleged? Do I feel thankful? It was by sheer luck that I was not born into the slum of Delhi, it was by fate that he begs and I give. I came to this country like a greedy outsider, I saw beauty in every corners, on the dirt road, between the chaotic lanes, in the streets that housed the lost, the unwanted, the strays and, and the abandoned. As I indulged in their beauty, the locals saw something else. Their eyes grey and liveless, they saw opportunities for a turnover, they saw joy in an extra hundred rupees from a foreigner, they saw nothing, nothing at all but to trade for the currency of life. They are not living. It took me a while to realize that it is easy for me to see beauty in this city, because I'm just a visitor, and they have to stay for good.

Lucien left. I took a little time off from work just to settle in with his absence. His cologne lingers in my room, on my favourite dress, on the blanket and it breezes in and out of my mind like an artful dodger. It reminds me of that morning when we woke up to each other, drowning in silence, quietly enjoying it as we laid still, hands in hands. Was it not tragic that I've finally found him after knowing this man for the longest, and finally knowing him beneath all?  And we were to leave, separately, trapped in a knot, in a frantic scramble, and in the midst of a tango. As we exchanged murmur of I love you, I love you-s... I took refuge in the fact that at least we did find each other. Here I am, few thousand miles away from my brown-eyed darling, across the pacific, and I'm two inches from the edge.  I'm leaving in a hundred hours. Away from him, to the other side of the hemisphere. In times like this, do I have to feel alive?

To my serendipity, my resonance, and my buoy across the pacific

I wandered far and about alone, as I went against the sea of human in many forms I couldn't help but feel exhilarated. It was the certainty of being at a place, being so finite and static, that made me genuinely happy. Was it the thick polluted air of this city that made me feel so oddly at home? People were oblivious of the weight of their existence as they carried on with their chosen routes, their eyes stagnant and dull. I was lost in the heart of this city. In the heart of this city I found myself momentarily fixated, the world turned still as I rocked to the lonesome blues this Puerto Rican man gently, gently played. Did he too, travel far and got wondrously lost? Has he too, lost his heart amidst this chaotic mess? He played the blues gently, gently like the sound of many heartaches, many unfulfilled love and many lost hopes. Like mine, lost in a rush of wind. Gone, gone in a gust of wind. I wandered far and about alone, and then I came back. Not any better, not any less. Do I blame it on my wild heart? Or do I blame it against the world? Here I am again, planning another quick escape. Like a coward, cowering under your shadows, packing my misery in a suitcase. Running far, far away from you.

From a safe distance, I love you.

I often think about my almost-lover - I can't fault the planarity of our encounter, it's the only way it could be. Almost tragically, I feel that he could be the essence of my being - fleeting, polar, and fluctuous. We will never feel settled in our ground state. Perhaps we are just pretentious fools trapped in a double-bind. Sometimes I wonder if in another time, in our best elements, will we be good together? Will I find solace in him? I can't seem to feel at rest. My almost-lover, he lacks decency. He is uninhibited, rude and cruel. I couldn't think of him without contempt, however in a reflective way. I wonder if he is truly happy?  If so, how did he do it? Am I happy? Perhaps not. Lucien doesn't seem to mind me - he thought of me as "eccentric"and "aloof", and that he'd probably never find someone as "interesting" as I am. Ah Lucien does not know me. He sees beauty in our misalignments. I find it banausic and it often left me feeling unsettled.  Feeling in love, and being in love is entirely different - that I'm well aware of but do I walk away from simple pleasure as such? I like feeling in love, I like the intimacy of it, and I like watching it progresses like an outsider. If only this would come guilt-free. Will I get punished for being so reckless?  Sometimes I think of Mr Ito - that tumultuous time he made me I lived for, how bare I'd gotten, and how blindly brave I was - I want it back. I want to go back to where the monster lurks, and when I was actually happy. Willing. And truly happy. It could've been this close. I think of my almost-lover often, in a distant albeit affectionate way. I wonder if these thoughts are products of my destined exit, or if I truly do want him? The thing with written thoughts is, they dance, they mock and they are, in fact, insubstantial. Alas, my almost-lover, is just an almost-lover.

Ah....am I not clever? I make fools happy.