Recent events have unfortunately led me into a depressive state more commonly known as “emo”.The past few weeks have become worrisome for me as I have found that Zainal has totally disappeared. I sulked and pouted while going about my daily chores for the past few weeks as he failed to reply to the many SMSes that i have sent. Ive checked up on his alternate blog,
http://qinboi.blogspot.com/ but it reveals nothing except odd pictures of topless guys.
why god why?In more happier times, I partake in secret, sweaty dancing behind the safety and privacy of locked doors. In happier times too have I practiced “clown faces” in front of the mirror for hours on end and in happier times, I would have been contented on my own secret world of masturbatory collages in the imaginative constraints of pre-R.E.M. Those happy times exist no more, as smeared eyeshadow is wiped away, drenched cheeks are blotted with Kleenex and long, brooding faces become staple. No I have not turned to being a goth, but here it goes…. I have an impressive record of writing bad poems and yet I am going to have another try at it, or at least something close. A nostalgic trip back to the times of teenage infatuation, where we were looking at clouds that looked like bunnies, passing love notes around in class and when holding hands were a big deal.
Dark mornings, somber faces and coffee as sleep-serums used to rule most of the trudge to school, each hazy step required titular effort, sapping the fading battery life that caffeine granted. But then, for every burdensome task, a positive state of mind kept things peachy. So, i timed every journey to catch glimpses, to hope to charm, to fantasise, to pretend to sleep, to get erections, in all, to grin widely at the moment i stepped off of the train ride.
Remember the days when we kissed till our lips hurt,
When movie theatres were a big part of our lives,
We strained to hear each other above the crackling of the popcorn machine,
To tell ourselves how great it was to be together
The nightly rings
Our minds racing with every fresh breath
To come up with something so it can all last longer
The less-than-jaded times of 4 hour phone conversations
Made up of baby sounds and needless details of each other’s lives
It all seemed okay then…
The mental imprint of your smile the day we sat together
Scribbling proof of our love on paper
Like it mattered, like we needed it…
Then remember the days when it crumbled
And in the muddle of impaired teenage decision-making, sore, teary eyes, the constant ringing of a few regrettable words, we really thought suicide was the only answer.
Then we all fucking wrote bad poems about love and the like.
Hehe…
