I've been awake for a while now.
You've got me feeling like a child now.
'Cause every time I see your bubbly face,
I get the tingles in a silly place.

It starts in my toes,
And I crinkle my nose.
Wherever it goes I'll always know,
That you make me smile.

Please stay for a while now.

Just take your time,
Wherever you go.

The sun broke into my eyes like crystals cutting a form out of me, molding the sculpt that cruel nights had me sunken as a haunted patch of rain would. Daylight seemingly blackens by magnified margins and the bitter aftermath of commitment has had my tongue piqued with poison.

Sleeping in your bed does not mark me special, being the reason for everything you do does, being the only woman you'll ever find yourself willing to go through heaven and earth and extreme miles does, being the only one you'll ever unconditionally love, does.

"We are never enough to ourselves because we can never be enough to another. Any one of us walks into any room and remind its occupants that we are not the one they most want to see. We are never the one. We are never enough."

-Mirror Mirror, Gregory Maguire

Of late, the musings have never once left out certain names, names you've read to ink in vague remembrance. And as you casually screen through this chunk of chewed words, you may notice a repetition of specific names. Well, what the heck. We all know that we love reading about happiness and sadness, all except the dull monotone of life's reports. We are in love with the crux of love's pitfalls because we relate to them and we empathise, so much so we place these written qualities into our own soles of shoes.

With the minimality of a clock down, the most favourable form of implicating joy is to spread it, like the rushing adrenaline wildfire of brave dives into ambiguity. The thin string of hopelessness diminishes so rapidly that it makes becoming cynical a harder task than imaginable.

There's so much to live and live happily for. My reason is my not so dark and not so bright future with him. As far as I'm concerned, today is the happiest I've lived in. I could kneel in plea no longer asking for more.

I have it all. I have solace.

Our very first home-cooked Western meal. He makes excellent steak.

(Haha) I forgot where we found this.

She looks like a rabbit here.

Discontented boyfriend and his very small plate of chicken rice.

After little-India-ing.

Our rare camwhoring moments, in the bus after our visit to Geylang Serai.

The man that moved me.

Home has evolved to be the one place I've lost complete familiarity with. The idea and ideal perception of home has thus been tainted to my perfect concept of failed marriages. It is an ugly recognition of love's flawless ugliness. What greater example than one of your very own parents' marriage. My pittance of solace is their silence after a mouth-off. Their marriage has conditioned me to believe that faith never brought love to a higher level of sacrifice.

The uncanny comparison of their committal vows is one to cool air brushing against the sensing skin of your nose breathing in like steams of hot lessons, leaving you largely breathless and possibly suffocating. The only relative solution to this is indefinitely to take in more air, denying the possibility that denial of its burning effects may scald God's given ability to smell or detect variations of temperatures again. But God consistently forsakes people in the nick of time, when troubles and woes stir a formidable combustion of chaos, and it's not His fault but neither of that is the point.

Love was supposed to be breathtakingly mutual and wondrously immaculate. I'm shamelessly in love with a man and I want to make him my life long's better of worse, in sickness and in health, but I'm afraid of the loving and having to love unconditionally because I never want to live in the shoes of my mother, what more relive the history of their marriage's shadows. I'm terrified to realize that perhaps nothing in this world could satiate my opinionated individualism that has, since then and of now, grown sturdy from a seedling as I was, well nothing except my boyfriend changing all that. Okay I'm scared gutless at the mention of the latter.

Taking this to a random scale, do you know it's easier to die for someone than to painfully love unrequited? Dying takes a while, loving takes a fucking long while, on the very basis that life ends and love doesn't.

I was the one you always dreamed of
You were the one I tried to draw
How dare you say it's nothing to me
Baby you're the only light I ever saw

I make the most of all the sadness
You'll be a bitch because you can
You try to hit me just to hurt me just to leave me feeling dirty
Cause you can't understand