Wham
It took me half an hour to find something that resembles a pen since I’ve given up the hope to find a real one. I write now using my mother’s eyeliner. Hell, I do not intend to write such an introduction. I wanted to begin outright with: Whammy, I’m sorry. We’re nearing our monthsary but I seem to have shut all the possible entry for our contact. But half an hour wasted on an effort to find a pen already has frustrated me. I have not only a ruffled house; I also have a ruffled mind right now. In the absence of a PC, I have no choice but to resort to the primitiveness of pen and paper, without backspace, without shift + F7—notice how I lacked another word for ruffled. I am sorry. My house seems to have learned how to get even with me, as what happens in a certain children’s story where the young boy reaps the vengeance of the things he didn’t take good care of. Everything here eludes me, everything I need would suddenly vanish. A book by Patrick Suskind for instance, when I decided to finish it, disappeared. As if the book knows too much about the ZTE-NBN scandal. The SIM card on my wallet, the wallet on my pants, my pants on the laundry, they all disappeared as if they are deemed by the government to be collaborative witnesses that will testify before the senate. Even the TV has gradually lost reception. Worst of all, my cat has lost control to defecate outside. What a sorry life indeed inside a house where a family is missing, things are missing, pens are missing. The original sweetness of thoughts I mean for this letter is missing. Now I have to find that too, my dear. In a matter of minutes, I’ll find the words. Or I’ll just take a long pause and close my eyes to feel this room, which is filled with emptiness you can never know. It misses familiar sounds and shadows. It misses your call, the distinct sound of your voice over the loudspeaker of whoever’s phone I could borrow, your soul emerging from the background of live hospital actions: the shrieks and songs of the patients, the clatter of medicine bottles, the staccato of your footsteps while doing the rounds. There is great distance between us, beyond geographical distance, that can never be denied. Our age, our culture, our family values, our worth according to the universal currency—no wonder everyone objects to our love. Everyone tends to complain when one is being too lucky; yet you stood steadily for me all the while. But then finally, I’m sorry that I have to be sorry for a while. I’m afraid that in this mess of a life I have right now, I could also but misplace my heart. My love will stay I swear; just give me this break that I want.
