Five. That was your initial number.
Ten. That was your second number.
About Fifteen. That is your latest number.
Sometimes I wonder about the city lights, its flickering movements and ghastly reflection on the Singapore river, and I wonder what has changed after these four years, and I realised nothing. Nothing about the city has changed; only I did. Now that I have you, my days don’t feel so numbered and my heart is filled with smiling tokens. Some days though, I forget about the happiness, the serendipity of it all, the blessings and the good fortune. What I remember instead, are my darker days and even darker thoughts that seem to signify inconsequentiality and an inability to grasp the universe’s lessons.
I think about you and ponder about your silences – the creaks and nooks I fail to fill (rather I am enlivened by them) – am I wrong then? Are our silences a marker for the inconsistencies that hang on the line of our limited communication patterns? I was once obsessed with endings. Today, I am dispirited by them. Rather, I seem more taken with the journey – I am hopeful with what is yet to come and in my enthusiastic gait into the near future, I imagine anything and everything with you inside. They say nothing worth-while every comes easy; isn’t this a silent thumb of rule of the universe? Maybe the numbers don’t matter. Maybe they shouldn’t matter. In the bigger scheme of things, these numbers are just a fleck from the past – a fleck that my heart seems insistent to mull over but still come up stumped. Is this matter worthy of a reaction? Should I be reacting to the ghastly parlour of a situation that is out of my control?
Today, I think about the city lights and the streets we have walked on. I am reminded of the impermanency of things, that perhaps, I have kid myself into thinking you are wholly mine. This painting of grandiosity and illusion will, perhaps, one day disintegrate into a watery death (after all, nothing in life is every fully yours except your own death and even that is predetermined without your consent). Today, I got hit by Hurt and am unable to protect myself from his strikes. So, I choose to write in hopes to purge, in a desperate attempt to avoid theatrical and emotional melodrama. I attempt to write your numbers away and wonder at the illogical of it all.
At the end, all that matters is that, I love you – the rest fades away, right?