His _ got universal recognition.

I was there as he went up onto stage, gazing intently as he made his speech in his signature mocking tone. I don't know if he was really proud, but I imagined as he went on in his speech, so did his pride slowly unfold. Never fully obvious, just in between the lines.

I'm glad he's proud. I'm glad he has this moment of glory. Though I am not part of it, though I can't share it with him, it is enough to just bask in the glow of this moment. It seems right.

Though life is not a matter of trade-offs, I do wish that somehow, this moment, could alleviate at least a little, the various regrets of his life. That it would become the fond memory he could turn to, when he needs assurance.

I've seen how the ghost of regret haunted his face so, made it hard and sharp, silent and cold. I've seen how rage boiled up in him, and the coolness with which he launched his fiery words. I've seen him understanding, sympathetic. I've seen him put on a fake smile. I've seen him tried to smile.

Today, I think to myself, I've seen him really smile.

And there I leave him, slipping away quietly.

Today, I'll tell you I love you.
Please accept these words I'm offering to you,
Bottle them up.
Nurture them with your own glow of love, and perhaps,
It might result in gentle but fascinating blooms
Shades of iridescent rainbows, the glow of a hundred prismatic hues.
Take it, these words.
You see, you might never hear them again.
So take it, and bottle them.
One day they might be dusty, and you could take them down and reflect.
Shatter them if you feel bitter.
But it would be something, something you can vent your feelings on.
Be they anger or regret. Nostalgia or perhaps even
Joy - if it was joy those bottles would the be bright and a-sparkling.
They would be beautiful.

Kiss. Seal and lock those lips together - bite. The paper burns the lips with its touch, the red ticks like bloody wounds. Blood, it stains the white teeth red, it fills her mouth as she mopes. Broken, and she wants no one to know.

A wall of smiles act as a barricade, isolating rather than drawing people closer.

Off. Only because I feel too weary to patch up that wall; too weary, too tired. But, it is not hard to bluff the world. I could spin a mask that fools even the closest to me. I could.

Do I want to?

There is grace in acceptance and bearing, comfort in promises, empty as they are. But there is, to some, at times, an even greater sastifaction in the warped belief that you would not have to worry. The trick is not to push you away when you know I'm hurting, but to not even let you know I'm hurting. It takes effort. It's sapping and draining. But for that one moment, you see, your eyes would scan but find no cracks. Then, there is no need for another heart to beat in sync to the melody of pain.

There is only so many falls a net can take before it breaks. Time is needed for strengthening, as with other things. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but a series of falls at a go with no reinforcement would result in a swift death all the same.

If you think I'm silly, spot the flaw then.

three months and two days-

I have been in a trying mood for the last two days.

It all ends with laugher at a picture taken three months two days ago, in that little room up in the school's library.

Tell me what's time, what's love.

There is an infinite mystery about the words "because I care."

Why do you care, who do you care for?

But I am broken, and you're trying to put me back.

Success's a question, but you're not the king's man, so perhaps this story shall have a different ending.

The Aftermath-

Red and yellow, once
full, but now bust, little
shreds pathetically on the
floor. Scraps of a happier time.
The music blares loud and cheerful, the
old man sweeps up the reds and yellows.
He's decked in grey and blue.

Blue. I'm feeling
blue. The blues, they're soft and
low and painfully sweet. I think, I
kind of expected it, this blue. But,
I didn't know it'll be this, this blue.
His image floats in my mind - like a balloon. Sunny and
bright, red and yellow. Pop.

Pop. There went another
balloon. The red exploded, a large piece of
limpid rubber floats gently
down to the ground. The old man sees
it. He sweeps it up. They shall be discarded,
later.

It was a moment.

And his eyes turned soft, gentle. Sweet. Adoring.

I am finding it hard to breathe. And this gaze, is not even for me. Just a passer-by. A passer-by witnessing a moment. A moment captured on film.

Warm. Like puppy licks. Sun and gold.

And I retreat, quietly. But the warmth remains.

as the story goes-

"I can't write," I say.

?

"I can't write. Not the way I want to. The teachers praise it, they think I'm good. I get high marks for my portfolio. But it's not the same anymore. I can't write stuff that touches myself, I can't write stuff that even releases the knots of my heart. They just add more knots, one dead knot after the another. Oh how I long for someone to unravel these knots of my heart, to spin them out so they become a fine tapestry, rather than these frayed knots."

So?

"I've been thinking. Have been looking back at my writing. Reading other people's blogs. I came across a quote, "The worst part about it (depression being one's muse) is when you finally are happy with most of your life, and your muse is completely gone, and you wish for all of it to be undone, just so you have your muse back." Whoever said that, he's not alone in his sentiments. I feel the same, kinda. And I guess, it's also a realisation for me, that actually all my blog entries have been inspired by well, pain, and heartache."

If you're really looking for pain, go slash yourself then.

"Right... thanks..."

Or go look for heartache then.

Sometimes, it seems to me that he never fully realises what he is saying. But he does, I think, and, there's truth in his statement. There's that plausibility about it. It's something I've thought about, but he has put what I've been thinking into words. The crossroad of my life. But, I've made my decision a long time ago.

"No. Given a choice, if I had to, between writing, and friends, between this art of mine, and knowing my kor, you, gan ge, my classmates, I would still choose friends."

This was the decision I had made. And, this is what I have to live with.

I'll still write. Perhaps one day I'll feel the spark again. There's still that little bit of hope in me. There's still a bit of pang, that little speckle of regret, almost. That little longing for the other path. And, there's no reason why I can't write about these.

Meanwhile, the conversation has moved on.

I want your voice-

Dead mute feelings, with words the only living fossil of what once-was. But perhaps that's only for me. Because when I read your words they explode in my mind, so intensely private and yet so quirky. Now that's your own, that's your personal voice.

And I want it.

You're toying with me, maybe. What have you gone through? I'm not sure whether you really experienced those feelings. Is it just a mastery of the English language? Have you just been influenced by books? Or... or, is it really something that you really really have went through.

I want your voice. Teach me how will you? Bring me up onto your plane. I'm sick of being down here. I see you up there on a pedestal, and I want to be with you. Teach me please. I'm holding my hands up to you - take me, take me, pull me up!

I am dying here.

My own voice is killing and smothering me. I've stayed up late nights but they stay a monotonous straight line, words that don't make my heart quiver and shake, that don't send explosions up into my mind, that are but a jumble of one, or two, or three ideas. Bland and tepid - lukewarm water.

But yours, yours is different. Your world seems to rock so, a world of constant flux hanging so precariously by a thread that seems as if it would break any moment - but it doesn't. It sways, slowly at times, violently at others, but that delicate thread holds it there, an equilibrium that defies all rules.

An equilibrium that should not exist.

But, it does.

Tell me how you write like that, those episodic recounts of frozen moments. So very, very, unnervingly intense - I should be glad at times, that you only type in short lines, short passages, for that intensity will take me, envelope me, drag me down to very depths of it all. But, but, deep inside me that inane lust to drown is strong. Give me a book of your words. Let me drown, if I cannot learn how to write like you.

Maybe it's better this way. Perhaps when I reach that white marbled pedestal I'll see that it's not all it seems to be. Aye, aye, just let me drown in your words.

Take me.