Random thoughts

What is love?

Is it even important?

I tell myself from time to time that I would rather die alone and loveless, than trapped in a love that does not become me.

It's been a constant refrain ever since Karin.

Time has shattered the sanctity of these memories; once I protected my past from prying eyes... not so much for me, but for Her.

Now I realise it really really doesn't matter anymore. Time heals some things, and breaks others.

Time has shown me the ultimate truth - that I really don't know anything at all. And where once I lived in black and white, everything now is just shades of grey.

I have become a Grey man, like the timestealing creatures in Momo. One of the hordes.

I don't think I ever knew what love is; I was just trying to find meaning in my life.

Things have been rather bleak these last few weeks, resulting in an attempt to relinquish what little meaning I had rediscovered, from my life.

I'm just so tired, tired of soul-consuming work, tired of this country; tired of the rigid mindsets of those around me; tired to discover that those like me have relinquished their.. life, and blended comfortably into the comfortable, calm, lulling little niches this society opens up for them. I am tired of fighting to stay alive.

Love, to me once, was that pitter patter (or the Singlified version, as a friend of Ting's said in passing, the pikpokpikpok) in your heart when you met someone.

It was the thrill of looking into Her eyes, every time you met Her, and falling.

It was listening to her very witty comments, sharp like a razor's edge, and being caught off-guard, and laughing from the soul.

Scrutinizing her as she said Grace - and unconsciously shutting the world out; the other people around us... friends, strangers, or even an absence of people - everything faded. Tunnel vision. And feeling something tender, yet fierce.

Listening to Her ramble about what our friends would think, if they knew we were together (and in truth, just her friends, because mine wouldn't know what to think. Hers, methinks, would have been shocked, because She was so very much, and so clearly unsuitable for me)... hearing incredulously, her say things about a future that I knew could never be.

And believing Her for a while, and feeling only happiness.

Wanting to stay forever friends.

Leaving because you did not wish to seek to jeapordize her world any longer.

I took all that to be love. An even mix of infatuation, perhaps-love, and.. the knowledge of an impossible love, fleetingly conquered by hope.

I look back now and realise that perhaps I was wrong.

There are so many different kinds of love.

Wanting to exist for someone.
Craving affection and adoration from someone - anyone.
Appreciation of someone loving you.

There are more; I have not, this lifetime experienced the full complement.

I don't know what I want anymore.

All I know is that, looking back...

I remember Grace, a little.
She had a pretty face, and a wickedly curved beak of a nose. Her attraction lay in her love for life, and her laughter. She was fiercely alive... spoilt, and passionate.

She wanted to be loved, and was capable of betrayal to serve her own needs.

I don't remember her eyes.

I remember Lynette.
She, too had a desire to be loved, and a great capacity to give love in return. She craved the perfect little life... to show off to the world.

I don't remember her eyes, either.

I remember Vaya, we were more friends who spoke of loving, than two people truly in love..
She was vivacious, and quirky. She had a pretty, elfin face that belied her age, and a mind that lived for, and thought in music. Something in my gut told me that her random-ness was born of something painful in her past, a front that had become so practiced it was her new persona.
I wish her well now; I wish her all happiness with her new life.

I don't really remember her eyes very well, but there is a slight memory in my head.

And then I remember Karin. Chia Kim Mae, Karin.
And all I remember are her eyes.

The knowledge is here now, hammered in by age and a life thus far wasted.
It is all gone, all my past.

It doesn't matter any longer, because it was so long ago; and I can speak freely here at last, now that I have nobody left to read this, or care about it.

All I wonder is ... next week, when the axe falls.
Or the week after next.

Or years from now, perhaps a myriad relationships from now

One day when I am old

Whose eyes will I remember?

Tired

There was a perfect, full moon tonight.

Perfect to run under,
with her,
In another lifetime.

*****
It seems I have my answer now.

There are no second chances.

Hush, my darling

It strikes me that silence is a secret language all in itself.

It can say nothing, yet speak volumes; imply consent or scream refusal.

It can be premeditated, or borne of spur-of-the-moment neglect.

It can be, by comission, an unspoken truth, or by omission, a lie untold.

It flits by before one can react, or crawls, one exponentially elongating second after the other, an agonising eternity within which to lose oneself..

A double-edged sword of the keenest intent.

*****
You say it all... when you say nothing at all

Simpler

Big Fried Fish

It amuses me when Sara tells me that my rightful place is in the Premiere league, not being wasted in the S league.

It reminds me of the scene in "Wanted" (which was very bloody with a so-so plot, but had angelina jolie in it...) when whositwhatsit (Somethingorothermorgan) is doing his Do you want to be like Them?? Ordinary?!?! rant (strangely reminiscent of something an ex girlfriend said to me once, but that had something to do with dress-sense)

I have no super powers, no lightning quick reflexes or bullet-curving skills.

But apparently I have (according to Sara, also known as HostSara, whom I shall publically name and shame today as one of my closest friends because she is not-shy-one, and doesn't care if being seen in public with shabby re-minisce will ruin her rep) charm, and am well-spoken, and if I learnt to control my powers, confidence and wit enough to melt a girl's heart, or at least her panties.

Oh, it would be fun.
And I think I would like that... play-acting like Style till it became second nature to me.
It's all sleight of mind. Being the string, and not the cat. Never professing your love, or even attraction. Being Bad.

And I can do Bad. It's been in my blood ever since primary school. Laugh.

But the thing is... the day I start playing the Game, I have lost hope in Good.

And the truth is I've never been playing in any league.

Just... walking on by.
From my past? Or from my future?

*****
There are three tenets in life, I believe.

Truth,
Love,
and Courage.

*****
Speaking online to a pretty stranger (If memory serves me right) tonight, she reminded me how good it felt, to be past trivial concerns like faith, and fidelity, and trust and truth.

Love, actually (rehashed)

I've written about love quite a few times, dating back to the days when dinosaurs roamed the earth and modems spoke in audible handshaking signals to each other, and blogs were web-pages lovingly created by hand.

I look back now and marvel at my naivete.

Love, when I was younger, was something that was given freely. You give yourself totally to someone, and what happens in return is immaterial. You have loved.

Then I grew older, and after the infamous story of K, felt the need to receive love, but was strangely unmoved when I did. I thought then in my self-obsession that I had perhaps lost the capacity to love.

Now I realise that relationships between two people are by definition dynamic, and bilateral (bicameral? heh). They need not necessarily be completely reciprocal, but a balance must be struck between giving, and taking.

Or else all you have is an effigy of a relationship.

Slide the balance too far to the left, and one becomes the giver, taken for granted; the other, the taker, wielding power and the right to be merciful, or not.

I believe now that to give love a chance at growing (after initial infatuation, aka the inaptly named honeymoon period), there must exist a mutual respect, and admiration - which can only exist with Balance.

Having listened to Sara on the phone (sounds like a song title. Sara on the Phone) for almost the entire night now... the question foremost in my mind is this.

Can there truly be Second Chances? And can love grow once the balance has been lost - will the slider ever be able to rest comfortably in the center again - or does petty vengeance and self-obsession invariably tilt the scales.

I wonder.

The Game

I've started reading a book Sara literally bent my arm into reading, recently.

I don't know that I'll ever be out there playing the Game, but it's a good laugh, and, in retrospect there's a grain of truth in there...

There've been a few rather fetching women I've captured the attention of, this lifetime - in settings just such as the book describes. And in retrospect I realise it was quite possibly because I followed the "rules" of The Game, quite by accident.

Perhaps I am my father's son after all.

Laugh.

****
and besides, who knows? The thought is intriguing. None of the "students" in the book were remotely players to begin with.

In my youth I would have been horrified. laugh.

Sempre Fidelis

This isn't a boast, just a ramble.

Through this last relationship I have learnt a lot about my own kind.

The medical circle in S'land ... somebody has to say this... It's deplorably unethical.

Just the other day, one of the regs was commenting how disturbed he was by the lack of ethics as practiced here. (foreign trained too)
This is the kind of hush hush thing that is only said in private. Saying it in public like this is virtual career suicide, but since nobody reads my blog anyway, what the hey.

In my hospital (let's call it Old Chang Kee) it's a known fact that the doctors sleep around, with the product reps, with other doctors, with nurses, with physios, and most anything that wears a skirt, except perhaps clinic assistants. I postulate that clinic assistants skirts are not conducive to quickies.

Of course everyone here is whiter than white, so you can only hear all this on very exclusive grapevines. It's a bit like going satellite tv, or digital radio. Everyone else around you is stuck on regular viewing, which only shows PG.

When you're hearing it from the horse's mouth, it becomes that much more real. Hard evidence, ahaha.

There're other forms of para-ethical dilemmas of course, like mowing through patient queues for doctor's relatives (sometimes at the expense of patient safety) or politicians and their relatives. All the kettles of fish Oriental societies brew, because we respect face, power and position above all else, and all others. It's institutionalized, and it's not relevant to this article, so... skip.

You can see how it happens, doctors here routinely marry other doctors (early, too) and wind up with vastly contrasting schedules, never really meeting up with your spouse, young beautiful product / device reps and... the nurses (i have no idea what the appeal of these are, shrug. high hemlines??) all around you. one thing leads to the other... etc.

Or perhaps the wifey is always at home taking care of baby, and again the medicine man is surrounded by sweet, young, attentive women who flash their pearlie whites at them and engage their eyes, with whatever bits of their anatomy they commonly employ.

And then there are the floundering marriages - perhaps the wifey is too demanding, too argumentative, or perhaps the husband is starting to grey, or perhaps starting to cheat himself, or there's this hot young guy at work, and nobody will ever know if we bang each other...

So you meet up with her, and she looks you in the eye, and you meet up for dinner, and then drinks, and then one thing leads to another...

Or perhaps you eye each other at different desks in clinic, and when the doors are closed hands reach for one another...

I can see how it all happens, now that I know where to look. It's a bit like looking for a ghost in a window, in those horror movies. Blink, and you've missed it.

Back in the UK, it was much healthier, really. Everyone bonked everyone after going to the pub, and everyone else knew precisely what had happened the next day, and everybody would have a laugh.

Down here its all very cloak and dagger. Very reputation ruining to be caught, high stakes, high risk. And once in a while heads of departments are caught with their cigars out and their pants down. laugh.

Whilst I can understand it all, I don't condone it.
Maybe I'm just a prude.

But if you're really committed to someone (and isn't marriage the ultimate committment? aside from work. hah.) even if she's turning into somewhat less than angelina jolie...... you made the choice when you married her. through thick and thin, sickness and in health.
If some sexy slinky sweet young thing lands in front of your desk giving you an inviting view down her cleavage... then keep the door open, and your hands where everyone including the nurses can see them.

If marriage is turning into a routine, find something novel to do with the other half, that excites both of you. Perhaps a holiday somewhere exotic, perhaps... s&m. shrug.

If you don't want to cheat on your spouse, don't go out one on one with anyone tasty at work, period.

It's really all about minimizing risk, and preventing scenarios of tempation from arising in the first place.

Because, really, once you're both taking off each other's underwear in some dark, private hole somewhere, it's rather too late to stop.

But that's where my argument breaks down.

The truth is that people here may not confess to it, but they do want to cheat. As long as they don't get caught.

I've never been married, but I do tend to enter serious relationships. I've never cheated. Not because I am pristine, but because I steer clear of uncapped soy sauce bottles.

Bittersweet

When the moment came, there was a flash of relief, as expected
but then panic stepped in.

And then the realisation :

The crafted dream is over, but I wanted the reality, after all.

These thoughts always come too late.
I hate them...

*****
Being patient, going out of the way to pick someone up at three in the morning, with morning shift at seven, swallowing pride and losing arguments, bending over backwards to accomodate someone...

... those were the easy parts.
Patience? It's nothing special. Anybody can be patient, if they want to be... it doesnt bite. And if you do it out of love, it's really quite easy.

The hardest part was when I'd tell her as she got ready to go out, or as we stepped out the door that she looked wonderful, or beautiful, and she would brush me off, or almost sneer in disbelief... so saddening

... if she could have only known what I was thinking, as we lay side by side looking at each other, or as I sat over her at sunrise and looked down upon her sleep bedraggled face...

Thinking, feeling : the deepest, most aching sadness, for when the time would come, inevitably, when I would never get to see her again.

Thinking, seeing : Gut-wrenching, each time, looking down on those eyes closed in repose, and on her ears, and hair, and jawline, watching her breathing, and thinking how ugly she could look from some angles, and how how pretty from others, yet from all of them she was so, so beautiful to me.

And sometimes for no good reason at all, I found my vision misting over, as I drew my fingers lightly across her brow.

Perhaps I should have realised earlier, that it is in my nature, like it or not, to fall in love. And perhaps then I would have given us a real shot, and tried to live with her, rather than for her... who knows.

******
I set this up. I was ready for the consequences.
And maybe I will be, in time.

*****
I loved it when she bent my fingers or shoulder around at funny angles as we walked along, not because I loved the inherent sadism in it, but because it made her laugh...

Perhaps the lines got blurred, between loving, and falling in love, in my head.

Perhaps sometimes loving someone is as simple as wanting to make them laugh.

I hope I gave you something good out of all this, my love.

Foolish Games

...Well excuse me,
Guess I mistaken you for,
somebody else

Somebody who gave a damn,
Somebody more like myself

- Jewel

Unspoken

She took pity on him, and asked her to walk with them back to their cars; to give him some company while he waited for Her.

Later, alone, in her auntie's car she said you're very patient to wait for Her like this.

He laughed, and said oh it was nothing special. Anybody can be patient...

The Cruel Game

No apology
No attempt to reconcile
Only silent tears (of rage? of anger?)
A near-end

And so it stands
my cross to bear

*****
I remember when she was telling me how she told some guy who liked her that she couldn't be with him, because she would hurt the guy she really liked.

I remember falling, a little more.

*****
Two ways to fall. In and out.

Is this my lot? Always reminiscence.

I remember
when you would go out of your way, even at risk of losing your sacred siesta, or waking up early on a Saturday morning - unthinkable for you! - to accommodate me.

I remember when you warned me not to do things for you, lest you take me for granted

I remember how, watching you, asleep in the mornings, with the sunlight playing about your face, and tousling your morning hair, vowing silently to myself to do all I could, be all I could, for you.

I remember how you told me you would rather stay home with me, how you didn't enjoy the meaninglessness of clubbing; I remember releasing you to your friends because I could never want to cage someone whose independence and spirit I cherished.

*****
Perhaps the best things about you

Not that you were beautiful (to me), or gentle
Not your body, or those legs which are the stuff of men's fantasies
Not your wit or intelligence, which are apparent

But that you were considerate, and selfless, and kind

That you could look upon my kind - the whiter than white Pretenders - discern in them hypocrisy, selfishness, self-servitude, unfaithfulness, greed and deceit, and that you shied away from them

That you knew right from wrong, you had morals.
You were Good