Sup3rnality

At times I don't feel it and sometimes it overwhelms me, this realisation of sorts.
Work has consumed so much of my time. The hours spent in the office almost equals the time I have to myself. And minuses the precious moments I have for my family and Asdil to its bare minimum.
It's hard thinking I am not giving them all the love they deserve, and even harder thinking about how I'll take care of them if I don't earn every single ringgit I can.
It's a tough battle in which no one can fully be victorious.
When Asdil holds me and everything melts away, I feel the weariness leaving my veins. I'm grateful for his patience and unconditional love. All I hope is one day God will let me find comfort in being forever Asdil's, so I may remember being me, even when I've forgotten.

Happiness is a warm gun. Whether pointed at my head or yours, they both seem legit.

People keep asking me that same damn question. A question I don't have an answer to. And it makes me what? Want to scream, cry, throw things around, laugh hysterically, shout obscenities? Sometimes all of that at once and more. It pains me that as hard as I try, an allusion to an almost-certain future never gratifies the question marks. It pains me because the only one who hurts is me. The hollowness echoes through the void that should be filled. Need to be filled. These blanks with words unwritten. A digit without a band. Empty words hang in the balance meant to soothe the flames. But flimsy letters only set the fire roaring. This want to close the spaces only wedges a wall between us. Please stop laying bricks. Please stop.

Love stories like these touch my heart so deeply. But out of all these stories, ours is the best.

My heart leaps at the sight of him, the 16-year-old in me blushes at his smile, the depth of his eyes that reads me like I was written only for him, makes my heart race. My hands are drawn to find his, to find completion in his gentle grasp. And with every syllable that tumbles from his lips in greeting, he closes the space between us. No space and time can divide us, the man is mine, and I won't leave his side.

We played footsie over guitar and coffee
But just a cuppa tea for me
Smiled across the metal table
We didn't think, ignored the warning label
Backseat laughter in the early morning
Made way for tentative lips in meeting
Window talked over confused minds
Bought tickets, wondering what we'll find
We took a ride, untangling riddles on the train
And given the chance, I'd do it all again
--- exactly the same.

(c) Hazlin Aminudin, 2012

*Written after the word "footsie" made itself present in a comment about runaway shoes (I like to walk barefoot in the office). The word brings sweet memories to my mind, like it only happened yesterday.

My thoughts don't run as wild or as well as they used to. No time? Heck, I think these are just excuses. But a sliver of truth rings true; the lack of opportunities to sit down and put pen to paper - so to speak - has left my mind idle, with no fan for the flames to burn.

I refuse to say that I am consumed by work. My work is not me, I am my work - or so I believe. Perhaps I really have become my work, letting it define me. But no, I am still me, just that in my pursuit for a better life, I have not yet been able to find that gap in time to smell the roses.

But these thoughts, these words are a dying art. Perhaps not dying. They are still there. But swimming in this sea of news words - politics, murder, rape, corruption, death - I have lost the words of abstraction that lets loose the intangible thoughts.

If there's a time that you should return, it is now, Words of Mine. I miss you. I miss putting you down on these slabs of blank stone.