Then here’s today, breaking habit. Feeling a little adventurous, without stubbles.

I wonder where have your bones gone to.

Ah yes, broken.

End of pork story.

Thanks to Nic, I’m chewing down a slice of bakwa, and I’m just about to raise the white flag.

No.

Must.

Eat.

All.!!

–

Doodhefatdoodles.

- Why Did I Get Married.

I solemnly swear to wear baby mittens on my hands when I sleep because I have no self control. Lalalallala

To hell and back. For better or worse. Through thick and thin.

The lost promises. The ashes of dreams. A roll of disappointments.

Familiarity? Back and forth between reality and sweet. Know, want, need.

Looping songs that writes the tales of the heart. What significance does it have, but only to me?

New stitches, material, blend of colours – no detergent could hide the stench of murky deeds.

Boxes of knowledge, the willingness to learn, the efforts were none. Lost time and hope is like fishing at the sewage.

Naive? I wouldn’t say.

My Hakawati, you’re now lost.

Titled: What Moving On Is Like.

Moving on is not like a birthday, you can’t count down the hours ‘til it arrives and you can’t mark it on a calendar and you can’t call up your friends to help you celebrate. You can’t plan for it and you can’t conclude it by blowing out a candle. When moving on happens there will be no announcements, no notifications, no congratulations. There will be no parade; only you will know. Moving on is like aging that way, if aging happened backward. If the passing of days made you new and young, if your condition only had room to improve. Instead of a throbbing pain in your right knee forcefully, increasingly making its presence known, first with a whisper and then with a mumble and then with a shout, ‘til you can’t move, ‘til you can’t walk; moving on is gradual like that except when it’s over, you can walk just fine. You can run, even.

Moving on is like this: one day you forget the taste. The next, you forget the smell. Then the touch. Then the laugh. Then the smile. Then the jokes. Then the eyes, the hair, the hands, the feet. You forget the socks. You forget the fingers, the toes, the sex. You forget the pulses, the beats, the rhythms and how you sometimes felt like they all belonged to you. You forget the words; finally, you forget the voice that spoke them. Moving on is like one day, you’re walking or reading or drinking the sun and one of those footprints, one of those artifacts will creep into your consciousness, “already seen,” the French call this, déjà vu, and you won’t know where it belongs or how it got there. All it takes is a familiar laugh, a recognizable word and you are transported to who knows where. You are a confused paleontologist now, scrambling to make sense of things left behind, trying to reunite the right dinosaur with the right bones. The scar from his burst appendix goes here, the part of his leg that doesn’t grow hair belongs there, I think this is his morning breath but maybe it belongs to someone who came before him; some other ghost, some other relic. His taste is an aftertaste now, his crow’s feet a souvenir with no place to call home. That’s what moving on is like.

Moving on is not like beginning a new chapter, it’s like beginning a new book — with each turned page, the last story you read fades into the background. A fairy tale that becomes just another book on a shelf; folded corners and underlined words the only reminder of how you used to touch and hold and love it. Moving on is when you begin to forget the intricacies of a character you knew intimately, you forget what he did for a living and the way he prepared grilled cheese and the nickname he had for his first girlfriend. You forget how he lost his virginity, you forget his middle name.

Moving on is waking up without a sour feeling in your stomach, looking at a familiar menu and ordering something different, taking the direct route to a destination and not the one that crosses a path you once set in stone. Moving on is when you think about him and don’t punish yourself for it, when he begins to evoke more of a scientific response than an emotional one, like “This is a 6’0” blonde-haired person who exists,” and not “This is a person I wish I’d never met; this is a person who has made me less of one.” Moving on is not to destroy or to combust or to set ablaze, it is simply to move, to advance through space and time, to leave behind the familiar dull of heartbreak for the new, the unknown, the strange. Moving on is a bird flying south for the winter who decides maybe the warmth isn’t so bad, who decides maybe he’ll stay there for awhile; moving on is like freedom, is what moving on is like. 

Source: Thought Catalog

Now it’s 2012. What have you got lurking around?

Maybe in another world.

I don’t mind living in my own bubble.

I don’t mind sitting in silence whilst my thoughts pound.

I don’t mind the late nights.

I don’t mind having magazines, unread for months.

I don’t mind taking two sips of sour milk.

I don’t mind charging the BlackBerry daily.

I don’t mind the rain head shower.

I don’t mind looping songs that hits a chord.

I don’t mind having an unused film sitting in the fridge for over a year.

I don’t mind building a library and not finishing any.

I don’t mind knowing I’m sadistic at times.

I don’t mind getting lost in time.

I don’t mind curling up holding a phone to my ear.

I don’t mind a whole lot, but I mind uncertainty.

Oh, and hornbills too.

We acknowledged one another, with the usual smile. Nothing fancy till we ended up in the same class in Form 4. We were streamlined into a class where we know no one. And here we are…

Okay, maybe not that pic.. here’s a recent one!

I’ve more silly pictures but I rather not.

We’ve been through high school, boys, girls (filtered – no one made it), the drama, lovers, baking, cleaning & her never ending nag of wasting water, the sleepovers & midnight haircuts, the clothes & fitting room incidents, the secrets, the gossips, the “love” for girls.. who would have thought we would end up working together?

Rewind 7 years…

- We had a sleepover & I was trying out my used-to-be awesome, Sony Ericsson W600. -

And I’ll never forget her baboon pants.

Back to the current age…

As a token of our friendship. Longer than any other relationships we ever had. It deserves a recognition.

Happy 23rd Birthday Rahrah.

Get married soon. I’m losing the bet already.

Hahahahahahahahahahahhahahaha….  it’s dated 9th of December 2005. What’s up little Chung Wei? See, I told you I knew them for thaaaaat long. Yes, that means I get to make fun of them however & whenever I want to. And no, they weren’t together yet.

*lots of love and kisses* Happy getting-old!