Eyelid

All of a sudden, I am afraid that my eyelid's levator palpebrae superioris muscle gets faulty and malfunction.

How am I going to open it up and be able to see all this greenery, and to see you?

Hush hush this grim thought. It won't be. It just won't be.

Hey!

It feels like one of those nights before raya. Everybody is busy preparing dishes, changing curtains, vacuuming every possible corner, and rendang. Rendang on the stove.

I am cooking rendang right now. Yes at bloody 1.30 am. Going to bring some to office tomorrow.

Good night

In Your Eyes

Ben Harper as taken from http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e8/Ben_Harper.jpg


I wonder sometimes, how people move so easily. Not to hold back and rethink about the cause and the consequences. Lunch box, head scarf and hope the size of Kilimanjaro.

Where would I go if I let loose my sanity? Would you come over and take me wherever you are? Would you hug me from my back and say I Am Sorry I've Been Bad? Or just perceive my faults?

Fly me to the USA. And I'll bring you to Ben Harper. And you'll strum that guitar for me.

For me.

In This Confined Space

I can't believe I have stopped posting over here just because I have found another place to write. It is like the moment of being a bird, wings sprawl open, sky and clouds above, all many other exciting things down there, taking turn to be explored.

This place has been a wonderful playground, like my very first entry back on 2006. Boxes, keys and trucks. Or that one night where I drove my car endlessly at 1 am in the morning from KL to God-know-where right after he told me he was leaving; and maybe the period when one annoying bastard paid a visit, and a few more visits after that, just to parade his bastardy craps; or when a reader asked me if I was from NST.

It was fun telling stories of my life, I mean my real life over here. The love, the constant complaints on the moronic little life I lead, the never ending short stories (forgive me for writing halfway, I don't intend to finish them up), the men I went out with, the story of H, A and many other alphabetical muses, and of course crushes of my own.

The deluded old bitch, that is.

It used to be when I couldn't wait to go home and write, because ideas were so much, and this idiotic life gave me inspiration more than I expected it could deliver. It used to be the day when I didn't care much writing names, or initials, because I knew there were only 2 visitors a day came to read my ramblings.

I could be anything that I want. The deluded spinster, the lunatic old bitch who claimed to own a beach (yeah!), the kooky lass who fell in love so easy, she could fall in love with herself then.

Except all of that are history. And history are not meant to be brought back to life. Because it holds the best part of someone's life.

This playground houses more malfunction swings and seesaw than I know. It needs to go through some renovation. Or maybe closed forever.