Tag Archives: hurting

86. i think she knew

through my paperround last year i met a wonderful man. he used to walk his dog as i’d deliver papers and we started talking around the time i started writing this blog. i think he’s 82: he must have mentioned it a while back. and i’m afraid there’s nothing literary about him: his existence is one of uncouth coutesy.

i quit the paperround a while back now but i still see him every sunday. nine o’clock in the morning, like church. he’s my little christian connection: even S is nowhere near taking his place. he gave me a bible with a picture of him in his youth stuck at the back, so that i remember him. secretly, i think, he believes that it will help me find him in heaven: he believes i will go there after all. 

to my friends, this man is “the old man”. to me, he is much more than that. it may be true that i meet him every sunday partly because i feel like it’s my obligation, but also because somewhere beneath my skin there’s a tendon that connects me to him.

his wife died last night. or the night before that. and there’s no more words because i’m hurting for him. because how can one even begin to describe his pain?

i had made them a card only this march: they celebrated their 60th wedding annivesary.

sometimes he told me he wondered if she ever loved him but i know that was only because he loved her more than anything else. ever.
and it’s a little late for him to tell her, but i hope she knew. i think she knew.


34. in a lapping wave of memory

the little pressures of life are getting to me and thought i try not to let it show, you just know. you know. you could turn a blind eye and sometimes i wish you would, but you don’t.
no, you soak up my pain instead and pour it out in vials of tears silently falling from your eyes.

last night it was me that was hurting, but it was you that was crying.

and without you i’d be lost, i think, my love.
it is your voice that lulls me to sleep, your hands that fleetingly touch the inside of my thighs as we sit there on the train: me reading the paper with you by my side, your heart in my hands.

and your tears, silent, unheard, unrehearsed wash over me in a lapping wave of memory, white foam of pain caressing the soft golden sands of dreams.
deja vu haunts me.
this has once already happened.
with Y.

19. i live it. so hate me.

if you only just asked me why i do it, i’d have told you it was out of insecurity.
if you asked me to stop, i’d say that  i couldn’t, though i tried.
if you begged me to stop hurting you… i’d break apart.

and the world is full of ifs, but there are facts too.
Y and X and Z and you, it seems, are not enough for me.
it only seems, because i don’t really know. it seems, because there’s a new actor on the stage. and i don’t know him much, but he can raise the butteflies in my stomach. and we flirted, maybe even courted, a little bit today. in front of you. and i thought your heart would break, but i couldn’t stop it, i couldn’t not laugh at every joke he said or smile at him like i smile at you.

so hate me.

and sometimes i wish you would. but you don’t, because you love me. you don’t because you’re better than me. but then again, is that really true? or are you holding on because you’re scared to let go?

if i were to tell you that i’ll never be yours, will you still be there in the morning, smiling at me, carrying my folders, love radiating in every gesture?
would you still want to hold me and never let go?
would you understand and accept me as i am, knowing that the day will come when i will leave the nest you’ve made me and fly away into another’s arms?

and i can’t put it into words, but i’ve found a poem that does.
it’s not mine, i just wish it was. and i love it.
i live it.

have a read. love it too.
but don’t live it please, cos i’m not as strong as you.

i couldn’t take you leaving me.
i’d  be the first to leave you.


I Scandalize Myself

I must tell my father
that the only man for whom “desire shattered me”
looked exactly like him,

and tell my friends
that I have different pictures of myself,
all true, all me,
that I will distribute among them one at a time.

I must tell my lover,
“Be grateful for my infidelities.
Without them
I wouldn’t have waited all this time
to discover the exceptional pause in your laugh.”

As for me
I am almost certain
that I scandalize myself
to hide behind it.

Iman Mersal

and that’s the poem. don’t you just love it?
don’t you just?

16. but that’s ok

the past two days have been all about A: her problems, tears, hopes, dreams and pains.
and that’s ok.
i can understand that.

she wakes me up at two in the morning with her phonecall, but doesn’t listen to what i have to say. she’s angry, she’s upset, but that’s ok. i let that go, even though i end up having only 3 hours of sleep in the end. because she’s hurting.

she makes me meet up with her the next day, on my christmas ( orthodox christian’s christmas is on the seventh of january. don’t asky me why), and has me stay with her the whole day, but doesn’t want to hear my reassurances.
but that’s ok, i understand.

she has me call up her ex, discuss it all with him, try to instill a sense of guilt in him ( for what? for him wanting to be merely friends now that, having dumped him, she wants him back? ) but that’s ok, because she’s my friend.

and i could go on, but i won’t. she hasn’t been the best character in the past two days. but that’s ok. after all, we all have those moments, don’t we?  

some of us just deal better with them, rely on others less and aren’t scared of new beginnings.

all she needs is just a little practice…