“I can’t trust you anymore,” he says,
“You are so different,
I have no clue what has got into you.
we don’t speak again.
Why did you have to speak to her?
And you didn’t tell me!
for ten days!”
“What happened to you?
How can I ever trust you,
“Sure” she says.
It wasn’t she who had spent the night with another.
It was one of those weeks where I have a reality check on what I need to focus on, like what I should try to locate in people to know whether they are trust-worthy, having the capacity to stand up for themselves and not sell me off to save their asses. Or in general to understand more about human behaviour and relationships.
The boy laughs at my stories on life (like my travel disasters, speech disasters, or random disasters,) and the stories of the man of whom I tell him stories. Of course he was perplexed first, just like I was to start with. Who would not be, to start with, of course?
The steps of the stories go: dating, daddy choosing bride, son has to marry bride, son goes to see the bride (in clandestine, though of course daddy wants him to marry her, and not so much him for that matter,) the other becomes the crazy woman to save the son’s ass (figuratively not literally, I mean hopefully,) and what not (more steps in between, but let’s stick to the summary of it, for all the good reasons in the universe. Yes, I consciously skipped “the world”. Universe makes it more dramatic for sure! And, yes I like brackets!)
Anyways, I think we know how this story goes, with all its humour, and the grotesque taste of reality mixed with stupidity. (Reality of course for my part, and stupidity to whoever should choose it to be their part.)
And he laughs. Obviously I am glad he does. (Rather than lose it over the idiocies that I am uttering over the phone.)
We presume (me, myself and I being the “we”) that he would not be reading this (hopefully). We have come to an agreement that he would not read my blog posts, and I shall probably not read his poetry (after getting a bit freaked out by the dark imagery). We have definitely not written it down on a contract with him signing at the bottom of it that he shall not read my writing, but then again, we like the amusement of throwing a tantrum over the potential of him reading this. He says he understands, and that he does not want to pry into my life! (There’s a man with patience over even the biggest nonsense!) Anyways, in short he indulges, and agrees. Not sure whether he obliges. Not important, indulging sufficing. So be it. (And no, I am not losing it, I just choose to write like this. As I mentioned, it has been one of those weeks, and Vositha is allowed to be this.)
All in all, I liked the week. And the weekend. The long conversations, blocking people out of life, (interesting and amusing it was and stupid in some sense as well).
Now for environmental justice, long writing, and for more humane things! Things like weddings in July, red heels and white flowers, and probably a dress, and maybe something to laugh about even if I am sleep deprived. But definitely not a blue suit and red shirt! Things like that, which spare my stress levels the stress, and do not involve reality checks. Simple things in life, which has no arranged marriages, other women.
And yes, I like this ring. It makes me feel, what’s the word for it? Special, yes, absolutely special!
The end! (I get back to saner things like, writing my case studies and policy documents.)
Life is in circles, of cycles. I start, I walk, and I return to the same starting point (of no point). Similar people, in search of temporary ego boosts of affection. Much predictable, them and I( No surprise!)
Life moves, I move, from things, people and the person (the usual, shutting myself out. Hide away from trouble! Run! Run! Run! To the cave! Run!). Indifference, boredom, stagnation, and then nothingness. I was on phase three. It had arrived too fast, with too much ease, and lack of effort. It becomes too easy when things get clearer, empty words, and inaction. Typing be easier, than any effort. You hate words, you hate lines of words, you hate paragraphs. And you hate those words that were typed to indicate closeness, meaningless closeness, of words of senselessness.
Walk away, far away, from trouble. Of hypocrisy, and words.