Filed under: L.ove, Rhyme & Riddle | Tags: Love, quote, relationships, romance
I read an excerpt today, and it struck a chord within me.
“Every day and night I want to see you and be with you. Yet I have no feeling of selfish ownership or jealousy,” he writes in one undated letter.
“Let’s go for a long ride Sunday; let’s go to the mountains weekends; let’s read books in front of fires; most of all, let’s really grow together and find the happiness we know is ours.”
I woke up next to you, the morning sun streaming in
Us huddled beneath the covers, toes and fingers entwining
Would this be the future, or a moment fleeting
Perhaps…likely…”I will consider”…baby don’t leave me hanging
Sleep in your eyes, a hint of a smile
Relaxed, at peace, come honey, just a little while
Why do I keep guessing what you are doing,
Why do I keep seeking what you are hiding?
Why do I read you like I read Twitter,
Like a stranger that knows you not any better?
Through love and confidence I skip through the days
While at the bottom of my heart I feel, come what may.
It sucks, it stings, it hurts like a bee got me
Yet it’s amazing, it’s crazy, it’s love (could it be?)
I miss, I crave, I soar on highs and fall into lows
I don’t settle, I thrive – on extremes of joy and sorrow.
It is Mother’s Day.
I struggle to understand the woman who single-handedly brought me up to the woman I am today…well, sort of ‘woman’ since I am moving into such a phase of my life. The past few weeks have been hell for both of us, with me doing a semi-move out and coming home only 3-4 night each week, and with her complaining that I have heartlessly abandoned her.
From my own selfish perspective, I try my darn-est to drive my point across: that I wish to stand on my own two feet; that I wish to try out living with somebody before considering anything more serious; that I am very stifled by her.
Yet on the other hand, I am also blessed with too good a heart to walk out of that front door. As a mother, it pains her to have her only child move out and leave her all alone in an apartment; her fear of loneliness which probably heightens when she comes home to an empty home; her pent-up emotions at having no one to talk to; her fear of letting go; her dashed hopes of having her daughter by her side forever.
It is Mother’s Day, and we were out having dinner. She saw the families, seemingly happy, dining with one another. “She is so lucky, one son and two daughters,” my mum remarked. Another family walked in, and my mum’s eyes took in the frail old lady who sat between two men, presumably her sons. And my mum lapsed into silence, eyes staring into a distance. Was she thinking of her life in future? Was she thinking about the lousy daughter she has by her side, who only knows to take her out for dinner once in a while? Was she reminiscising about the days when her daughter was single, and could accompany her to the gym and dinner every Saturday?
It is Mother’s Day, and a television advertisement on rice came on. An old woman appeared, with a voiceover: I only ask for your patience, and your love, and nothing else. This rice, I cook with love, patience and everything else. My mum remarked, “Good advertisement. Echoes exactly how I feel.”
A pang of sadness hit me. Could I have done more? Would it have made a little more difference if we both had cherished each evening I am home, instead of hurling snide comments at me and lamenting loudly how “poor thing” she is? I wouldn’t have had to retire into silence, shaking within in rage and tears, while she tries her best not to drown in her own sorrows.
Could there be a balance, between pursuing a life I want and remaining a stay-home mother’s daughter? It is not that she restricts me so badly, it is not that she has imposed a curfew upon me. So am I asking for more, like I have always done? Would I have been the person I am, if I have resigned to obedience?
And what happens when I get married? Do I share her with my future husband, or will I be forced to choose between the two?
And so Mother’s Day will come and go; the days of Mother and I will pass with turbulence, day by day.
“I recall standing before Panton’s drawings, hand in hand with the lover of mine. I recall our stark differences in design preferences, and I taste his kiss on my lips in the darkened halls of sublime. Voices blended into murmurs, the shuffling of feet became oblivious to me; my mind is on a flight of its own. I smile at the memory, at the lingering thoughts of that stolen kiss.”
Would you have had a similar episode?
It is almost interesting to notice how much my life revolves around the subject of “love” these few months, ever since I entertained the prospect of opening my heart up to someone else again.
The idea of “love” is stereotypically romantic, shot through the heart by an imagined Cupid in his diapers and feathery-white wings. The first thought of “love” sends hearts racing, palms sweating and spine-tingling moments. “Love” holds its dearest association with fiery passion, lustful highways that the eyes travel, fierce intimacy and drowning in ecstasy.
It is these stereotypes and common associations that I find myself hinged unto, when I embarked on my collection of “Love Stories from Yesterday” – my affair with the rickshaw man, prostitution in early Singapore and what have you not. I tread precariously between cheeky and suggestive, versus safe and propaganda. I turn the old fogeys into something sexy – I ask, “I Love Museums, Do you?”
I am your walking epitomy of why museums aren’t your boring slush of artefacts. It feels terribly narcissitic saying that, when I try to convince you that one can meet the smartest, sexiest, girl of your dreams in the museums – not your Friday nightclub hangouts. Okay, granted – there are hot chicks every Friday night but you can be sure to get the intellectual one in museums, at least that’s what I hope.
So begins the “I Love Museums” campaign, a seemingly 8-month march awareness campaign, to release a new branding that begins internally and externally. A phrase which I hope will be at the tip of everybody’s tongue – I Love Museums with your own talk-back – here’s why, here’s how, do you? A simple branding which I aim to pepper around Singapore, a message so in your face that you cannot ignore it.
“Love” takes on a different mask with each individual. I imagine the lover slip his arms around my waist as we immerse ourselves in an exhibition. Fuzzy, warm.
I imagine the sway of her hips and the echo of her heels on the wooden floor, his eyes never leaving her tush. Sexy, inviting.
I imagine the quickened breathing as he pulled her into a dark corner, and she clung on to his neck as their lips found each other’s. Exciting, exhilarating.
I remember the graceful walk down the aisle, her face shining with happiness as she parts from her father’s side to join her husband hand-in-hand as they exchanged their vows. Happiness, satisfaction, peace.
And there’s more.
I quote from my friend’s fiance, who departed this world at a tender age of 29. He was wise; he was patient to share. “A man must love his woman more than she loves him. Only this will the relationship between them achieve equilibrium.”
When a man loves, he does not question the rationality nor the other matters in the relationship. Love is a feeling, the rest are problems or cases that have solutions to them. Empathy and understanding of a woman’s character is generally lacking in the male species; it is not within their capacity to spend time understanding and deciphering a woman’s heart. Love that men feel, overwrites mistakes that their other halves commit – it takes an apology, a sincere make-up and an assurance that she will not repeat it within her conscience means.
When a woman loves, she seeks to understand and decipher her man’s character, temper and quirky habits. It is of women’s nature to be in touch with feelings and emotions, dwell upon them and seek to understand dissonance. Women share their thoughts and emotions with like-minded individuals, and gain further insight into their interpretation of their men’s behavior. When a woman understands, she forgives her partner’s mistakes more readily.
When a woman loves a man more than he loves her – this upsets the equilibrium. Women in love are the most complicated creatures – if I dare say. Women think, ponder, scuttle among different explanations in their minds, fly into panic, worry and pain ever so fleetingly yet leaving a trail of the aftermath of their eratic thoughts. Men – not having the capacity to understand – seek to redress the problem through their typical male “solve it now, heed not their feelings” method. The lack of enough love for their women requires constand need to redress problems and dissonance in his life – which he has no capacity to deal with, in a Mar’s society.
That being said, it is a generalised sentence, but it made sense after all. Just like how Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus (yes, a book advocates that), the biological and psychological construct between both genders are as alike as black and white. Hundreds of books have been written to help men understand women, and vice versa. Each book seeks to glorify the gender they are in support of, and seeks to have their readers understand their chosen topics. (ie. have male readers understand females etc)
I say – believe in yourselves, remember why you two got together in the first place. Make communication the first priority in your life. That’s your golden key to a relationship. And by that, I do not guarantee marriage as an end, but it made me feel the power of love, sacrifice, talking and listening.
What happens to the storms in my internal self
Self-depreciating issues, self-doubt in its full fury?
Nothing like that should ever dwell
Too long, turbulent, deepening my misery.
With you it’s eternal calm and peace with myself
No questions, no doubts, simply warm and fuzzy
I wish for a lifetime of this and you – yourself
A simple feeling that spins me dizzy.
Why did I succumb to those who think I cannot love
Why did I believe those who see me as cynical
Why did I hole myself in to gaze at those above
When all it took was you to show me it is this simple.
Time at a standstill, we waltz to our own rhythm and sound
“When girl loves boy, and boy loves girl,
Their feet don’t touch the ground.”
Filed under: L.ove
The problem isn’t always about me – it is the problem of wrong combinations, clash in characters and differing interests. They say, “Differences attract.”
I doubt I can pretty much sit down with a man who (let’s think a complete opposite of me here) glues himself to his computer playing computer games, or sleeps his entire day and parties every other night. Neither can I discuss anything with a brain which thinks in only black and white, life and death and nothing in between. I will probably break into a run if he indulges in quirky pleasures like…study instruction manuals and grinding kitchen knives, and much less even step out of the house with him if he fails as much as to dress normally. (ie no checkered caps, neon pink v-neck tee shirt, shorts and chunky Ronald Macdonald basketball shoes) I believe my expectations are very reasonable.
Jokes aside, it is about finding the right fit. My Christmas past left quite an imprint in my heart that I took a very long while to get over, the others tried to have me believe that I could not love but only through their guidance I could love (oh, what utter rubbish), and some were too much of idealists to believe anything but their one-and-only-true-love. Some love psycho-analysing me (I am so guilty of that) and seeing me as an enigma or a walking conflict that they simply must resolve; many will do ANYTHING to possess a piece of me.
Whilst I am on this topic of dating, boys and toys, I have in my portfolio the “married man”. Before you maniacs jump to conclusions about me being involved with one, let me emphasize what turn-offs these men are, well, at least the live specimen in my dictionary is. Tell me, what is so desirable about a married man? They have got that ring on their fingers to mark their commitment to their wives – be it good, or not – and a child-seat at the back of their cars to illustrate their ability to contribute to mankind. They disappear out of hearing simply to answer a phone call, and they reduce themselves from confident-speaking characters to one who babbles helplessly, “Yes dear, I am on my way home. Really, I am driving lor…why don’t you believe me? Want me to turn the stereo on for you to hear? Yes…I will buy dinner home.”
Hilarious. Perhaps in the worst case scenario they send the same message to both the wife and the second lady, “Darling is eating *insert random food here* yummy yum!” Maybe he might even send it to his kid, “Papa is eating *insert random food again* yummy yum!”
Those men worry about having to bump into their wives or relatives when visiting malls, so they take their rendezvous to anywhere else but the mall. “Say, dear, do you want to go to *insert random ulu coffeeshop* for dinner?” While I have the luxury of walking to my boyfriends’ houses and going “Hi Auntie!”, plonk myself down on the sofa and watch television, these men (and their girlfriends, poor things) have to think of alternatives like “Dear, can we go to your place?” or simply hang out in their car. Maybe Hotel 81 too.
I touch upon this sensitive topic simply because I feel the pain of having to constantly tell a friend to “wake up his bloody idea”, that no, as much as he complains about the lack of connectivity and chemistry with his wife back home (then why the hell does one get married for!?), he is not appealing at all. Zilch.
How about the one who truly makes me happy? The one whose eyes will speak his soul to me, the one who I will run to simply for a comforting hug. There is nothing to describe but the root word itself – “happy”, not anything fancy like “joyous”, “elated” or “estatic” blah blah. How about him who I will always break into a smile no matter how bad the day went? The feeling of being sweet 18 once more, the simple pleasures of talking anything, everything. The feeling of “coming home.” The one who rings my rhyme true – Their hearts their haven of dreams that weave; A life, a journey, when their hands and lips meet.
Or would I have wished otherwise?
I found my favourite chill-”pill”. I discovered it with my Christmas guest, who took the liberty to whisk us to that island. I was introduced to the later addition of this chill-”pill” when Wine Glass opened, and it was all complete.
Those who I hold dear to my heart, have seen the place with me.
But gone is my Christmas past, where “present” shall never be.
Why do I even bother, looking back so wistfully
When Christmas has come and gone, ever so fleetingly.
I want to dance on wings of love
I want to sing a song so sweet;
It rings of souls entwined so deep
Their hearts their haven of dreams that weave
A life, a journey, when their hands and lips meet. I want a soul in tune with mine
A soul who sings my thoughts divine;
Of depth, of wisdom, of hearts combined
That lingering touch, that stays behind.
