This week has been too much emotion pouring out, too much admission of the heart, too much of words flying in the air, too much pain crushing internally.  Not for me.  No, not for me.  I see the brown eyes staring into the sand, words transforming into emotion - blue, so deep like the ocean, like the sky.  Ashes fell around us, sunlight turned brown, strangely alien orange; and emotion floated around as if waiting to cover and squeeze us all in, draining the last drop of blood in our heart. 

Too much words.  But we needed them desperately.  My heart listened to theirs and we knew that we have been there, somewhere, sometime ago, and sad when we realized that we were there.  Why does it hurt?  I saw the tears, the pain, the confusion, more words flying intermixing with the ocean breeze.  And I wanted to squeeze them out, let them mix with the salted water, carry away with the waves, just maybe it wouldn't hurt so much anymore.  To see the pain in your eyes, it bring the pain into her eyes, and hers, and hers, and mine, well, mine just ache thinking that you should hurt.  But fortunately I was never there.  Or am I?

Hearing your words made me think of him.  Then I see him, admittedly I saw him many times.  Not because I want to, but because he never went anywhere, he just sat there unconsciously attacking my sleep.  Hearing your words made me admit that he was there and he is there, somewhere.  Hearing your words made me felt discomfort when I saw them strolling along the pier.  Hearing your words made me ache for something that was never meant to be.  Hearing your words made me long for something that only exists in fairy tale. 

I am tired of living in obligatory fairy tales.  Does that even make sense? 

For a long time, I thought the only way I could be happy was to be with a man.  For a long time, I was so afraid that if I didn't cling on to someone I would be lonely forever.  For so long, I went from one boyfriend to another because I was so scared, chosing one guy after another who I don't really care to be with when I truly think about it.  I picked the one who cared more, who put themselves on the line, whereas I stood safely on the borderline waiting for them to come to me.  So I don't hurt.  I can safely walk away, easily, freely, because I strung the line so loosely, away from my heart. 

Finally, after so many unnecessary tears, I can safely say that I am happy with my singlehood.  I am comfortable being with myself.  And I am glad for the time that I have to learn more about myself. 

But there is always a constant reminder that somehow singlehood is unacceptable.  There is always the question of "why" a person is single?  Is there a deficiency?  Why would it be so wrong to be single?  Why was it so wrong to have a boyfriend at a young age and yet now this age why is it so necessary to be in a relationship?  Why the constant reminder that time is moving quickly, that I don't have much options out there if I wait longer as if that is even true or does it even matter?  Why must I settle just so I can settle into another typical image of unhappiness?? 

I just need to remember.  It's okay to be single.  It's also okay to want to be with someone.  It's also alright to feel lonely sometime, to need comfort, to want a warm shoulder.  But those days will also pass.  For now, I want to lie on the green grass, staring at the blue sky, playing random mind games with the new friends that I made, and keep exploring.

While I was driving my mother home tonight, I listened to snippets of her conversation with my aunt.  They're selling the house, the house where she grew up as a teenager, where she got married, where she took care of my grandmother, then my aunt, then my grandfather, where her children grew up shortly, where she waited alone with me.  She was outrage to the point where I almost hear the tears falling through her voice.  But the tears never came.  She refused to speak about it and the conversation ended. 

I forget about the importance of "root".  And thinking about the years that I lived in that house with her, or the months we watched that house from far away, I can sympathize with her anger. 

At some point, three generations lived under the same roof.  And quickly, with the ending of the war, the house that was once filled with voices, laughters, tears, quickly began to fill with silence.  My grandparents, my aunts, uncles, cousins, everyone began to die, to migrate, to disappear, to run away, and in the end, only my mother and I occupied the space.  She protected it.  Even when, it was her turn to migrate she held tightly onto that house.  It was her family, and like a sickly relative my mother ensured there was a caretaker. 

When I returned to that house a few months ago, the space seemed smaller than I remembered.  I hoped somehow to find my root in that house, a familiarity.  Memories did not flood back and sentiments did not fill my heart.  It was just another building, a space that occupied a bit of my childhood memory.  But nothing seemed the same and even if it was the same, I couldn't remember it.  Even now, when the relatives decided to sell that building, it means nothing to me.  But to my mother, it puts a weight on her heart. 

Maybe if I was in her shoes, if my parents' house now was being sold, I wonder if I would feel the same anger. 

There you are.  Here I am.  I vaguely see your outline in the distant.  Your name I might have heard once before, in a dream, a novel, somewhere.  No word can transpire.  Between us is a line, a gap, an abyss that we can't possibly fathom leaping over.  The fall is imminent.  One jump and it is the end.  So there you are, in your fog, outlining a dream.  And here I am, a dreamer walking into reality.