I Don't Want To Grow Old

There is a tingling little worry in my heart.

Forget about the meltdown of global economic weather, slash the occasional grunt of not having a boyfriend (irony me. I need one, please), put away all the gloomy tales I have been telling you all this while.

Simply because there is a bigger problem sits on my head right now.

My hair is receding. Depleting. Getting thinner and sooner, there is nothing more except a giant shiny scalp spreads on my head.

The Totler said, I shouldn't let the worry entangle because the serum I bought should do the math on how to figure out to make my hair grow stronger again.

Oh, we've got a long, long way to go
To get there
We'll get there
But oh, if there's one thing that we know
It's that we will not grow old

I listen to this Lenka for more than a week now. Trying to restraint the thought that the age worn on my body right now does not reflect the look I wear everyday. Because reality pinches you on the part you hate to have. But gulping the reality though how soar it can get is far better than lying comfortably in a bluff you made yourself.

Looking forward, apart from this heart-wrenching hair depletion, or world mass retrenchment, or super old spinster I am getting right now, I still have a long way to go. Say for the next forty to fifty good years, if God permits. And along the way, how weary I will be, or how worn out I look from outside, the younger I will be within. Sometimes its hard to see but not to be seen, and sometimes its hard to speak but not to be heard and sometimes its hard to perceive on our on expectations.


Totler : I hate to tell you this but yes, that awful stylist is correct. I can see your scalp
Me : You know what, I should grab that guy I see everyday. The one I told you walks beside me and doesn't have the guts to tell me that he needs me, too? Remember?
Totler: You are just getting old.

Oh, how could we know that day, it came with age
That oh, the feeling would fade...

Call Me!

Empty spaces.

I used to love the feeling of getting lonely. Somehow it attracted me by leading me to think that I had the power, the great idea of an accomplishment.

I used to love the space I had in my own house. Without the needs to worry of sharing it with someone else. Though the rooms are enough to accommodate a truck load of men, I feel bad enough of sharing it with others. Because I love the privacy I possess all this while. Getting naked? No guilt.

But these empty spaces long for someone new. They long for freshies. They long for someone other than me.

I need house mates. Note the plural. At least I won't be crying shoulder-less when I need them most.

Lace of dismay

"Maybe you should just take away this day out from your calendar. Perhaps, it'll make you better"

Thank you for this invitation H. I could not say anything but a heart full of dissatisfaction and wrath over one little thing you did to me. Or maybe you have put that matter as minuscule, unseen by your big bulging eyes, but for me, this unseen matter of yours, have jolted most of my life into unidentifiable pieces of junks. Or the stench from your unwilling heart.

It has become emotional ride in the first place, by the hesitation you have portrayed on your face not to deliver this card by your own, and the dismay I might portray later.

And no thanks for the journey I have to go through all over again. The sidewalk of life I prefer to ditch and the unprecedented offers that life has to offer in store. How hard it would be later, I shall presume that it won't be any of your concern, and I find it better for it to happen that particular way because that is the exact way I expect it will be.

So it hurts. But flashing back the smile you have given to me, and the bright lights that lit my dimmed days and the uncontrollable emotional flows on that glorious day later, shall put away this dismay.

Selamat Pengantin Baru H.

As what had I whispered, my prayer is strolling by your side.

Always.