dewdropsdripping

[dewdropsdripping]

10th of December, 2020.

Dear M,

You, of all people, probably know that she is the one who wants to be freed from all of these the most. But as much as we all wanted it to happen, the choice is not only ours.

For the past 3 months, things have stayed still. Probably the most difficult thing that she has come to accept is that she has consciously made her burden known to two other people other than us. Unfortunately, none of it is shared. It lingers like a taboo. No one has the bravery to bring it up again and I guess they all hope it has never been spoken and will remain unspoken. Nothing good comes out of it, and they probably suffer more.

For now, our only hope is that someday they’ll realize that living sincerely in strange lands and through unimaginable hardships is better than feigning happiness by staying in a fabricated paradise they are forced to call home. Or maybe life, in its unimaginable way, can prove us wrong.

Unfortunately, M, this means we have to bid farewell. I know emotions are meant to be felt, fully, but she needs to swallow her anger and pain and put the skeleton back in her closet. There is no room for more intense emotion in this household; everyone has had enough. I know it is difficult to accept, but we cannot think of any other way to survive. Every road that she has taken, she has only encountered dead ends, so she can only do what she is most familiar with: numbing her own feelings and playing her role dutifully, probably until death relieves us from this burden we’ve all never asked to be born into.

Even though we have to let you go, we know we can never silence your voice. It will always be a part of us, it will remain with us. But let it be a reminder that, as foolish as it sounds, we still cling to that faux reality that someday, somewhere, things will be better in this life. Though our current self cannot see the end of it, but by holding onto the little things in life, wouldn’t we be able to navigate through this never-ending storm?

M, our time together is brief, but please do know that we have never blamed you for the things that you have done. If He can bring the dead back to life, I believe He can also found you and heal you, even if you are buried in the deepest abyss.

Until we meet again, M, and I’m truly sorry,

T

[dewdropsdripping]

a study of a man and his loneliness.

It’s 20 minutes past 9 o’clock when he arrives at his apartment. He doesn’t know whether it is the jam-packed subway or the heat of summer nights, but he suddenly feels really tired. After struggling for a while to reach for his keys, he opens the door with a sigh and turns the lights on.

At last, a familiar sight. His humble abode. The small but spacious room he calls home. The room is still messy as ever, but he is already used to it. He can still smell the faint scent of cologne that he put on this morning. There is also the smell of fresh laundry from a pile of clean clothes that is stacked on his TV cabinet. His launderer must have put it there.

After cleaning his self up, he slumps down into his bed and lets out another sigh. Today passed by quickly and he couldn’t even remember what he did for the past hours that make him this exhausted. These days, he’s been functioning on auto-pilot. Every morning, he wakes up with his eyes half-closed as he prepares to go to work. He arrives at the office late (everyone does), turns on his computer and starts working. He pauses for a while to eat the food that his friend ordered for lunch and then goes back to his desk to continue working. Sometimes, he sneaks out of the office for short smoking sessions. Because work is always piling up, he usually stays late and has dinner there. Then after an hour of staring into his monitor and drafting a half-assed email to a client, it’s time for him to go home.

Today went by just like any other day, but what makes him so exhausted? He still doesn’t know. At this point, his brain is already giving up playing spot the difference. All that he knows is that he was exceptionally restless on his way home. He really has no idea what gets into him, but he just rushed out of the office, declined his friends’ invitation to go out and jumped into the 9 PM train like a mad man. At that moment, all that he could think of is going home. Nothing waits for him there, but he just wanted to be home soon. And there he is now, lying down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. And just like that, a day has passed.

Life is indeed fleeting, or he’s just getting old.

He turns on some music and closes his eyes. He’s tired, but he doesn’t want to sleep yet. Now that he’s home, the restlessness has gone but a new feeling creeps in. A strange one. It creeps in like a blackhole, absorbing his other emotions and makes him feels choked but empty at the same time. Yet the feeling also feels familiar. Like it has been there all the time, but he is the one who just noticed it.

Getting out of touch of his own feelings is not a new experience. As his work forces him to constantly rack his rational brain and challenges his logic, he barely has time to process any kind of emotions. After all, there is nothing much going on in his life that pushes him to use his feelings. But some feelings can be so overwhelming and he knows it is unhealthy to just shrug it off, so he learned to recognize and confront it. To actually feel it.

So far, he learned that there are several things he can do to get back in touch with his inner self. There are times when he just lies down and strums some notes on his guitar, humming some random songs while letting his thoughts drifting away. Some days, he just watches a movie and lets his thoughts overanalyzes the storyline and the plotholes. Or sometimes, he just sits at his desk and writes.

During those times, a lot of thoughts and emotions can rush in, but he likes it. It feels like he’s been detached from reality. Like time is ticking more slowly and he can see his life unravels and expands before his eyes. It’s a spur of moment thing, where his mind is able to travel to another timeframe and dimension, creating another version of reality while at the same time revisiting the moments he once experienced in the past. After a while, the world will start to make more sense. It feels surreal, but somehow more real than the mundane routine he calls “everyday life”. Sometimes, it makes him wonder which one is actually living: the time he spends going through his day on autopilot or the time when he is just drowned in his own thoughts.

Tonight is one of those nights when words just poured out. Trying to not lose the momentum, he immediately gets up, sits at his desk and grabs his pen and notebook. After opening a can of beer and plays sentimental music, he starts to write.

He writes stories about people he encountered in his life: people who pledge their hearts for the ones they love and people who break each other’s hearts. He writes about love and how it tugs the string in your heart and sets it on fire. About the kind of love that makes your heart swells, but leaving it numb when it’s gone. About life, and how it makes you bend and break.

When he’s done, he closes his notebook, feeling satisfied. It’s been a long time since he feels inspired to write and it takes a heavy load on his brain. But suddenly, he can feel a pang of jealousy and it makes him surprised. Wait, is he really jealous of his own stories and the characters who live in them? He can’t believe his own thought. What is this, really? It sounds so pathetic, he thinks, the thought of wishing that someday he’ll actually live the stories, not just writes them.

He takes another sip of the beer and chuckles at the ridiculous thought. Well, at least he wasn’t born under an alcoholic’s pen.

Or was he? At the end, life is a mystery.

He stands up and walks to his bed before his brain starts another round of philosophical discourse on macrocosm and microcosm theory and the mystery of the universe. However, as soon as his head touches the pillow, a realization hits him.

He knows it. That exact moment, he suddenly can identify the overwhelming feeling that has been lingering on for a while now. That mysterious, strange, but familiar feeling.

It is loneliness.

It’s 20 minutes to 2 o’clock, and he really needs to sleep.

[dewdropsdripping]

pour une infante défunte

Maybe there is a place where every unkept promise, broken hope, unsaid words, and misunderstood feeling floats and remains there forever. Imagine that it is a very misty place and there is a thin, clear glass that enfolds the place like a crystal ball. The silence is so cold it chills you to the bones.

But outside that quiet realm lies a very beautiful place.

All of the lost parts of every lonely soul that are trapped inside the place try to break free, but the glass cannot be broken. Every time they try to break the sphere, it shatters into tiny hurtful flakes, but then another thin layer of glass appears and closes the eerie hole.

And somewhere, someone's heart breaks a little.

It must be a very sad place.

[dewdropsdripping]

if all our life is but a dream

Votre âme est un paysage choisi Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques. Tout en chantant sur le mode mineur L'amour vainqueur et la vie opportune Ils n'ont pas l'air de croire à leur bonheur Et leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune, Au calme clair de lune triste et beau, Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres Et sangloter d'extase les jets d'eau, Les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres. Your soul is a chosen landscape Where charming masquerades and dancers are promenading, Playing the lute and dancing, and almost Sad beneath their fantastic disguises. While singing in a minor key Of victorious love, and the pleasant life They seem not to believe in their own happiness And their song blends with the moonlight, With the sad and beautiful moonlight, Which sets the birds in the trees dreaming, And makes the fountains sob with ecstasy, The slender water streams among the marble statues.

Clair de lune, Paul Verlaine. 1869.