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You’ve been a witness to my best and testified for me at my worst. You’ve watched as the
seconds accumulated and became months, and flew through the February skies. You’ve watched
as the grass weaved itself into a snare and rued itself out of it. You’ve listened to the symphony
of the flowerbeds, and you watched the conductress germinate only to wilt.
I wonder if you still grieve the fig tree, because I know I do. I’ve spent too much time pining
about the colours of the fruits, only to watch them rot; one by one. Only to watch the springtimes
turn to summer; and the summers into autumn. To watch the leaves fall like my tears on that
Saturday in February.
I feel as if these two years flew past me. Like the clouds escaping from the rain during a
tumultuous monsoon season, like the shadow escaping into the night to retain their identity and
cope with their impostor syndrome.
But I still feel like I’m living in the past. As if the tea is still piping hot, the sky is less gray, and I
have a lot of myself to give out. Getting older has not been easy on me, for I feel like my only
future is in the past. As if my only purpose is to bury relics and bones into the sand, only to dig
them out. Moving on is inevitable, for the train is bound to reach its destination. Even though I
loathe how little I had, I would give anything to burn my tongue on the tea.
I have lost and I have gained, I have hoped and I have despaired, I have watched dynasty’s crush
and saplings grow, I have watched performances end; with and without applause. I have watched
loved ones fade and thrive.
When I had nothing, I always had my remorse and empathy. Although I’m not sure if being in
constant fear of grief and a desperation that clings on to you like a leech can be classified as
empathy. But I am in fear that I’m losing more of it everyday. Is it that I’ve been desensitised to
the apathy, indiffe rence, and envy or is it the lack of capacity in my body to hold emotions
besides anxiety and grief, or even the fact that I’ve given too much of it, that i’ve lost fragments
of myself. Maybe it’s the physical depiction of it crawling from my heart into my bloodstream,
and flowing into my brain; making me visualise the strife that isn’t mine.
With great power, comes great responsibility; and I fear that I have neither. I don’t possess any
sovereignty and can’t imagine being able to restrain it with my fingers. But if I one day have any,
I hope I have it in me to retain it.
No one prepares you for the seasons fate drags you through, for the darkest rain clouds and the
brightest Suns. For the soft piano ballads and the blues on the harmonica. But maybe you