February

It's because you are new

and exciting,

that I worry about you.

February, please be nice to me.

You're out on my diary

pencilled in with lists,

unforgiving and forlorn

never a day to spare.

February, please be nice to me.

I talk about you

and how you'll be different

not too new and never old

February, please behave for me

I Hate You

The words spill out a little too quickly for me to stop them.

They are permanent like ink from a broken pen on a chiffon blouse. I can't remove it.

I don't blame you for cutting ties and walking away. I said it all too quickly and now I can't take it back.

It's caustic. Unbelievably caustic and I would say sorry for saying it but I can't. What's an apology if it's not heard? Maybe it's just regret?

Words are more powerful in the air than they are on paper...

...I think anyway...

...I say this because words in the air can't be taken back whereas words on paper can be crossed out, erased.

The words I say are bigger than me, have more power than me and to say "I hate you" is beyond any emotion of hatred I can feel.

Basically, I didn't mean it. And now it's too late to undo it all.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Consider this for a moment:

God says to you that faith controls everything. If you pass your exam, it's not because you worked hard but because God wanted you to. If you fall into a hole and lose your limb, it's not because you were careless but because God wanted you to.

So I suppose God wanted me to go for two blood tests...to have both my arms jabbed with a small cylindrical tube to draw 6ml of blood out of me on both occasions. Sigh....I'm tired, God. I really am. If everything is down to you, I shouldn't be blamed for a low WBC count or the depressed face I have on every other day because it isn't my fault...you just wanted it that way.

Am I going to UK then? I don't want to play games any more. I'm sorry for the people around me who have to put up with my inability to get better or be a better person. I'm sorry that I've disappointed. I'm even more sorry that I've to be dependent. I'm GUILTY for being a slave to "faith". I'm feeling this way because God wanted me to isn't it?

I want to say "I wish I were dead" but I can't because that'd not only make me an ass of a sadist but also because I love this life too much. But these games I've had to play....I can't take it any more. I want to live without these things. I really do. I'd shoot myself if that's the way to make everything go back to normal. But I suppose, if I were to shoot myself, I'd be dead.

Mother and father aren't happy. I'm not happy. Faith's made me fork out more money than I'd ever want to. The blood tests, the consultations, the treatments, the injections, the costs of my weekly travels to the medical facilities...materialistically, it's depriving. Emotionally, it's depressing. Physically, it's draining. I literally barely made it into bed last night. What's next dammit...Can't get into the UK because immigration won't let me into the UK in my state. I've got the grades, the uni, the money(sorta) but not the clean bill of health required....??


I dunno.....I'll leave it to faith....

All That You've Done

I'd like to know how it happened.

No. Don't give me a timeline of events. I know exactly what happened - I know the order in which it all happened; I know the role you played in this; I know the story you're about to compose for me.

I want to know how this all happened. And if you can manage it, I'd like to know why.

It's funny how you now have not very much to say. I seem to be getting a little mumble here and there but not much coherence. The story you carefully rehearsed in your head is now gibberish and, quite honestly, serves no purpose in communication.

I think you're not ready to talk about it - maybe the incident was too traumatic to articulate. Maybe you need some time, or rather, more time to conjure a story of how and why it happened. I don't know. I'll just leave you to it and when you finally have something to share, I'll listen.

I can hear the jingle of handcuffs in the distance. They belong to you and your hands, and I hope you're happy about what you've done.

Christmas Tree in the Window

I boarded the train at Guildford to travel away from home to the outskirts of London. The doors closed behind me, shutting out the cold air and keeping in what little warmth winter has left us with.

And off we went.

It was while sitting in the last carriage with my head against the window did I notice how many Christmas trees were still left out in living rooms - I could see them in the windows of the houses we sped past. Many of them were still joyfully lit with colourful lights while some stood lonely in a dim room.

As the Surrey countryside began to merge into metropolitan London, the houses began to lose their warmth and everything seemed to darken slightly. And the sight of Christmas trees began to dissipate until there were none left to be seen. I felt what little we had left of Christmas disappear behind me.

I guess it is already January.

As we pulled into Clapham Junction, I gathered my things and stood by the door waiting for it to open, and when it did, a gush of cold air flooded the train. I got off and looked around - everything's dark and grey and the station has never felt so cold.

I walked to Platform 5 to catch the connecting train and I was the only one there.