… Stories of My Mind …

Speaking about vacation, I realized that I’d want someone who love traveling. Not just “travel”, as in the ritzy hotels, but really, travel.

Amongst the traveling that I’d like to do, here are some I have in mind - climbing Kilimanjaro; taking that train from Beijing to Lhasa; trekking in the Himalayas; work through London - Paris - Spain - Morocco by train and foot; Morocco to South Africa and the Safari; some partying in the Greek Islands; an Antarctic adventure…

Yes, I am high maintenance.

If I am cold, I apologize. If I am short, I really did not mean to be rude.

I am starting to have mood swings, I rarely ever have mood swings. I keep trying to bring myself back up, but I feel more tired than ever.

Definitely need a vacation.  

There is something wrong with me.

I am grumpy; running out of patience; writing curt emails. I am jealous; not confident at work; tired. My laugther is taking more effort and I am growingly more dispassionate.

There is seriously something wrong with me.

I am jealous. I hate being jealous. Being jealous means that you’re not getting what you want, it means that you are losing. There aren’t that many things that I am jealous of, I am usually at peace. When I am jealous, I find it very difficult to deal with.

Acting like it’s no biggie failing the CFA is starting to haunt me. I know I did not deserve to pass. After all, I spent more time whingeing than study. But there is something in it, that’s pulling me down. I struggle.

This whole “finding out my ex really did get on with the last girl he cheated on me with” is actually a lot harder to swallow than I thought it would be. There is this bitterness that I didn’t work, that maybe there was something wrong with me afterall.

There is someone I have special interest in. Knowing that I am of no significant difference to that person makes me jealous.

I know I am not invincible, and mostly I am not perfect. What I thought I had dealt with a long time ago is starting to come back to haunt me. Again, I remind myself, I have to distance my emotions, learn to be unemotional. Again, I cannot, and should not, have special interest in any particular one. You can’t fall off a cliff if you never climbed the mountain to get to the cliff in the first place.

I refuse to be taken hostage by emotions.

I failed. I failed. I failed.

I have never failed. I have come close to failing, but I’ve never failed outright. No matter how little effort I’ve put in, I’ve never failed.

Well, time to wake up and smell the coffee. I’m not invincible, I’m not perfect. I didn’t study hard enough. My heart wasn’t there and I wasn’t focused. I whinged more than I studied, and that was my fault.

Too little, too late.  Learnt my lesson, next chance comes next year.

I finally let my guard down. This time I actually chose for it to be broken down.

The funny thing is, instead of being some random night out, we actually conversed. After all, I had only known him for two days. Those kisses were soft and warm as they landed. Shoulders, lips, neck were only some of the places he discovered. He knew how to apply the right amount of pressure with his hands, and most importantly, where.

We talked about dreams, of the future and those of which were broken. We talked about our mistakes and those of which we wish we will never make again. We talked about how lucky we are in our lives, and what made us each our own.

He would break into this wide smile and then plant a gentle kiss some where.

Showed up at a friend’s farewell not knowing anyone. Luckily for me, I’ve been single so long that I can work these situations just as I would if I had known everyone. I may not remember everyone’s names by the end of the night (alcohol may have something to do with that though), but I’m pretty sure everyone would have heard my loud voice.

Mr Common gave up his seat for me. Mr Common occasionally flirted and smiled and joked with me. Mr Common was not ugly, or sleazy, or arrogant. In fact, he was quite agreeable, he had his on charm, accomodating. He was not striking, therefore definitely not controversial. He was actually really quite common.

So, I let him come with me to the dancefloor. I let him come close to me. I let him lingered. I liked it that he could move on the dancefloor, and I liked it that he smelt, well, to put it plainly, nice. Mr Common was nice, all in all.

Mr Common played with my hands underneath the table. His hand lingered on my knee. We caught a cab together and he even managed to walk me to my door. But I wasn’t about to bring him home (yes, still traumatized a year on, besides, I would be too busy the day after). He takes my number and left his on my phone and asks me to call him when I get back. That he’d give me golf lessons.

To be honest, I’m not really sure what to do with Mr Common. If I had strong feelings either way, I would have known what to do, but I don’t. I’m not sure if it’s because of these walls I’ve built - I didn’t feel much; or was it just I’m too busy? Or maybe I make too many excuses.

Onwards and forwards. We see what happens. My golfing skills (or the lack of) may need improvements. He did mention he was a good teacher afterall.

Being barred from the office after misplacing my keys, my Sunday plans (which, sadly, does actually involve me getting into the office) fell apart. Determined to not stay at home and feel sorry for myself when everyone I had called up were either ill, busy or spending time with their other halves, I ventured out to The Art Gallery of New South Wales.

After watching a free screening of “The Day I Became a Woman”, I stepped into “The Arts of Islam” exhibition. The artefacts on exhibition were absolutely stunning. Carpets with stories; vases, jars and dishes fired with brilliant colors; and pages of the Qu’ran, intricately illustrated by its writers.

The pages of the Qu’ran took my breath away. At that moment, I wished I could read Arabic. And even if I couldn’t read Arabic, that didn’t stop me from appreciating its beauty. None of these came easily, the beauty, the intricacies and its symmetries. It struck me - that it’s because of faith. The illustrator would have spent what would have been days, weeks and years, on the script, details, precise gold tints. They would have thought it worth while, for the faith that they had. They believed. More than believe, they knew.

Over the recent months, I found myself building rules. Gone are those times I do just because; I love as it is. Is it experience? Or is it cynicism? Is it healthy?

I wondered for two seconds, what happened. Then I remember. And then I understood. I can’t. I simply no longer have faith.

And that isn’t going to change anytime soon. It would be too romantic if it did.