Love and being torn apart

“But you’ll need her too, won’t you?”

It was a revelation of sorts. He was jolted and stunned by how these words fell into the right places in his head. They echoed the fear and awakened (once again) all the uncertainties he held deeply since that fateful day.

Love compelled him to share in her anguish, desperation and fears. He felt he had to do the manly job of carrying her burdens or at least listen to her as she talked about how tough life had been. Patiently, he gave her his undivided attention. He had to be the man in her life because he loved her.

Yet, there was neither respite nor a place for him to release or unleash his pain. No matter how hard he wanted to, there was no way he could get it out from his system. Beyond the daily struggles and wonton discouragement, there was only him and the voice in his head. There was no way he could reach her. Pain intensifies.

Every other day, she made her declaration, albeit privately. Alarm bells, rarely wrong, were ringing furiously in his head. But at every end of that three-word sentence, he had to silence the bells, soften his heart and rationalise in his head. The soft and gentle whispers, so fleeting that they could be easily drowned out by the desperation expressed by his heart, simply asked if he ever considered how this seemed to be a one-way street.

Her issues became a legitimate excuse, which in the long term, transformed into an anchor in his heart. It weighed on him. It landed at the bottom of his heart, trampled and broken from years of misuse as well as abuse. Seductively, it promised an end to all the years of his search for acceptance (then love). It moved him into believing that the pain would be worth it all at the end.

All of this chipped away at his resolve, with her declarations merely papering over the widening cracks. Love, like an abandoned ice-cream cone under the sun, melted away. Its promises of being loved and his heart finally getting the much-needed salve dissipated. He couldn’t tell the difference between love and compassion now.

Saying sorry would have been enough. Negotiating his way through a minefield was challenging (and cute) at the start, but now, he had no idea how much longer his heart could take it.

Sooner or later, he would have to draw the line before everything else consumes him indefinitely and irreversibly.


“I feel so bad that I’ve been the only one venting.”

Just seconds after the words flashed on the screen, the voice in his head said, “If only you’d knew…”


“It wasn’t right for her to tease you like that.”

“I don’t know. I felt like a freak after that.”


Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

愛是耐心的,愛是善良的。愛不嫉妒,不自吹自擂, 不自高自大。愛不粗魯,不自私自利,愛不是暴躁的,不記別人的過錯。愛不喜歡邪惡,愛為真理而歡欣。愛包容一切,愛總是信任,愛總是希望著,愛一貫​​是堅強的。

Swing when you’re winning

A year ago he was part of the big group. They were celebrating Ms Polar Bear’s birthday and he remembered feeling overwhelmed by the personalities at the table as he sat there. One of them joined them later and as she sat down, she muttered something about having to rush down from an island.

Overwhelmed was how he felt for the rest of the night. Being part of a company of six, enjoyable as it was, seemed (and seems) to take any words out of him. But still, thoughts in his head swirled as quickly as the words were exchanged amongst the group.

Almost year later, “estranged” was the word that appeared consistently when he thought back about that fateful night.


It was only her who sat in front of him. A captive audience of one for the night, she was the only person he could focus on.

From a company of six, there were now two of them (including him).

Except for a question that he asked about the food, they talked about everything else. Except for a longer-than-it-should (fairly) awkward gap of silence, they weren’t bashful about their bums taking up two seats in a crowded(ish) restaurant on  Friday night in its entirety.

They talked about his love and how it made him realise he was poor at managing a woman and her fears. She offered her opinions (which were priceless to him) about how he should behave and what he should say to the love. There were other questions floating in his head, but with whatever advice he was given, he might figure out his way through the maze of a woman’s needs and expectations of her loved one.

But the highlight of the night was when they reminisced (and yes, they talked about a personality called “reminisce” too) about the good old days when stumbling on a well-written piece of local prose online was an enjoyable experience.

Those were the days when snooping around the comments section and hyperlinks under “Blogs I follow” could unearth the next treasure trove of literary prose that could hold his attention for weeks, months or years to come (also depends on how much the author updates his site or when he decides to move his prose elsewhere, away from prying eyes).

He remembered making that remark about how the popularity of certain stuff has added to the increasing lack of attention span these days and many had learned how to express their thoughts in 140 characters (and it’s not even words!). He opined that the days of everyone else writing prose were over because there wasn’t a rich source of inspiration ready with the next mouse click. There aren’t that many people with whom we could draw inspiration from through their words, how they strung them together and how they would describe an image, a scene or a valued piece of memory with so much beauty we could hold our breaths to admire.

“We could put together a selection of stuff we loved to read and publish them somewhere!” he exclaimed excitedly without any thought about potential copyright issues that would stop this ill-conceived idea in its track.

Yet, that was the theme of that night. They could revisit those words, their words, and sentences they created. They could get a feel of what it was like during those heady days when all it needed was the desperation to pen memories for posterity sake. Or to manage the surge of emotions that were triggered by a word, a glance, a stare, a gaze, a wink, a hug or perhaps the warmth from some (and sometimes accidental) physical contact.


For the longest time and being horribly misinformed, he thought sex would not appear in any of the fairer gender’s list of “some of my favourite things” (cue one of the songs from The Sound of Music). He thought it would rank lower than their dreaded monthly visit of cramps and moods that swing wilder than a pendulum.

And just within the recent week, he was plunged into a rude awakening of sorts when introduced to another side of human sexuality, i.e., the first glimpse of unexplored “territory”.