Sentimentalist

I am sentimental. And with age, it gets more refined and defined.

It used to be a big mash of overwhelming, uncontrollable emotions...exploding fast and left me quivering with rage or tears. I didn't have words for them, they were as real as you saw.

Bad deeds were done, harsh words spoken and much hurt rendered.

Age is a marvellous cure for recklessness and spontanity. Age makes you selective. Age justifies forgetfulness. Age makes memories more beautiful or excruciating.

Like aged whisky, the flavours bring reminisence and clarity of the past.

Unconsciously, I have distanced myself from them. Recollection brings back the familiar feeling once again, albeit with more precision, on old sentiments.

It is always laced with questions and resignation.

I am sentimental. But Time has passed.

I can only carry on.

The rights of wrongs

Everyone wants to be right. Or think they are right. Or hope to be right most of the time.

Who wants to be wrong, unless ignorant or intentional?

In our world of meritocracy, social/moral values, mainstream perceptions...we have to be more right than wrong, isn't it?

But is that 'right', right for you?

Are you alright with living a life of 'right'?

It seems warped, insensitive, maybe even immoral at times.

The sense of guilt, shame, despair from being wrong in the eyes of many others.

But the idea of being right is the precedence of results mostly from others' pasts. We see the consequences and deem their choices wrong...for them.

And we take reference of their experiences to right our own wrongs.

Easy. And save us the unnecessary trouble and time.

But how do you know their 'right' is right for you? How to know a 'right' if there are no 'wrongs'? How do you know the perceived 'wrong' won't be right for you? Do you have the courage to be wrong then? Can we be allowed to be wrong then?

For the stability of the 'common good' (another social indicator), we cant't.

And if we believe that, is it right or wrong for you?

Sick and sick of it

Cough, flu, sore throat and sinus inflammation.

2 off days and 2 days of recovery in bed.

Irregular hours and late nights are taking a toll on this aged body. Mind spinning questions and answers that the mouth can't speak nor ask.

I am just one of many, whose existence only matters to an elected few.

Sam sam

Soon you will be forgotten.

Sorry Sam

I fart. Blurp. Snore. And more farts.
I have evil tots.
I would love to kill people I detest..
Or hurt them so badly that it is worse than death.
It's tiring to behave properly, speak properly, live properly.
I struggle with my values sometimes.
I am softer than I actually look.
I would love to do things my way, break rules and care shit about the consequences.

But I can't. Or rather I try very, very hard not to.

I bear the expectations of many, am the pillar for some and the nemesis of a few.

I can't fail.

And I am sorry you can't, Sam.

I am sorry you have to bottle everything within.

I am sorry that sometimes I don't like being Sam.

Sorry.

I am a Toys"R"Us kid. And Happy 38th Birthday, Sam.

Age. Aged. Old age.

My knees creak. My waist too thick to spin. Lesser hair. Heavyweight, heavier commitments.

Reality takes away the exuberance, responsibilities shape your demeanor, priorities compromise our choices.

'There's always a kid in there, no matter how old the man'

Is there really?

In a faraway land of unfamiliarity and bodies wrapped under warm coats...where pulsating beats worked up perspiration and evaporated against the night coldness, we all felt young once more.

The moves. The laughter. The alcohol. The smell. The closesness.

Like the fleeting display of beautiful fireworks...captivating till the last light flickered out.

All were drowned by the moment, drawn in by the euphoria that seemed eternal, and we were children again.

But Time goes on, and never comes around. I can never be young anymore.

There's always a kid in there, the one that dreams and dares.

But he will always be in there, no more out there.

Happy Birthday, Sam.