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Wednesday, February 02, 2011

It's not him who'd come across the seas to surprise you
Not him who knows where in London to find you

Everything barely hanging in balance, while you're the one perched on the fulcrum, busy shifting your weight from foot to foot to keep the scales from toppling
but you can't stop pieces of life from falling out the moment you let your attention slip. These lost things you can't recover.
And as time drags on, you lose parts of yourself, bigger parts.
You lose to time and turbulence.
You can't get off the fulcrum, because quitting is an admission of failure.
It's a confession that this life is too much for you to take..

And also because you're tied to about ten other people whom you still give a fuck about.

Maybe I feel so pent up because I'm stuck in a rut while watching other people move forward. People who are going away, sourcing for alternative plans that are actually plausible, people who appear worried but know they might actually do well, people who are not worried because they embrace whatever outcome as providential design. The only wrong thing to do is to do nothing. Maybe that's why I feel so uneasy all over. I wish moving forward can be as simple as a symbolic wiping of lipstick stain off your girlfriend's mug after she had died. But it isn't, because in reality things can haunt you forever, and people who have moved forward may regress.

she's not here @

6:14 PM