i. want. you.
written: 8:35 p.m. on Wednesday, Feb. 18, 2004

I am hopeless. There's no antidote. There never was any to begin with. I should've known that things will descend into this state from the very beginning, seeing as I am who I am and thus I'm perpetually trying to justify my existence, but I was in denial before. Denial is the name of my best friend and we sleep together, night after night. It tries to convince me to continue inserting Jay Chou into my nightly fantasies, my self-composed lullabies, but I'm finding it more and more tedious, night after night.

Ever since he came into the picture my Chinese supernova (Jay Chou) has become less and less obsess-able. But Jay Chou was never my ideal partner, for want of a better word, but he, on the other hand, totally fits the mould.

I said I was in denial before, right? This was just for fun, my crush, for want of a better word again, on Feather.

But I sat here, in front of the computer, thinking of what to write, how to write what I want to write, and my mind drifted surreptitiously into another train of thought, and it was him. I saw him up close today, I talked to him today, he gave me a nice smile, and I can't get the way his voice sounds over the telephone out of my mind. The way he moves, almost feminine, like a cat, and I got the feeling that he carries some sort of a cold wind with him, or maybe it was just me. I think it was, as people usually say he's "nice". But what is nice? "Nice" is such a neutral word. It's a word one would use to describe a cat, a dish, a movie, a song, a flower, the weather. "Nice" isn't a word one would use to describe him; it's too mild, too generic. Or maybe it's just me.

He's becoming a refrain, and it's getting annoying. It's getting out of hand. It's impossible. I need to forget it. He looks at me and he sees a kid, but I look at him and I see beauty. There's no other word for it. He's beautiful. And I'm sinking a little bit too deep, but I'm not buried yet. I can pull myself out of this if I tried, but I don't think I want to.

I like feeling this way. It's the first time that a curious person of the opposite sex has made me feel inadequate, just standing next to him. Before, it was the other way round; I stood next to the ex-boyfriends and I just knew that they weren't good enough for me. Yes, it's conceited, but it's honest as well. It's a truth that I understand completely, and thus this whole thing is a waste of my time.

I can see how this is going to end, and all the endings are exactly the same. Void nothingness, empty vacuum, nothing else, nothing more, nothing less. And I would wish that things were different, wish that circumstances could be altered, wish that I were somebody else, more eloquent, more beautiful, more perfect.

He turns me into a schoolgirl and I'm younger than I really am, no longer 17, but 14, 13, face-to-face with my first crush. I am supposed to possess maturity beyond my peers, for that is what people have always thought of me, but not in this case. It's impossible. There's nothing to be done about this.

I wanted to say so much more, tell him who's really behind the poem, but all I could say was that I knew who wrote it, and he smiled vaguely and said "oh dear", and I couldn't think, so when he said, "And you're not going to tell me are you?", and he smiled and walked away, all I could do was to answer, "No", and plaster a false, saccharine smile on my face. Like I meant it. But I didn't.

I wanted to tell him; it was practically on the tip of my tongue. Despite the sheer atrocity of the poem, I wanted him to know that I wrote it, not anyone else.

What the hell for? I don't know. Does it even matter? How many of us truly know ourselves anyway?

He doesn't care. It's obvious. If only I were his student. But that would make things even worse.

I don't know what I want, how I want, when I want, why I want. I want, but I can't get. I know I want something, something more than just giggling and squealing and behaving like some obsessed schoolgirl. But I don't know what it is; I can't touch it, can't feel it, can't even sense it, and it's almost driving me crazy.

But still, it makes me feel better, despite everything. I think of him and things don't seem that bleak anymore. Maybe it's some strange masochistic and pretentious validation for my existence. Maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill.

But I know what I felt when I sat here and subconsciously thought back to the tiny incidents that took place, things that meant nothing to him but meant something to me, my nervous fumbling over the phone, his assured, composed tone, my insecurity, unthinking mind, his confidence, his fluidity, and that smile, it's beautiful, it lit up the entire room, and it's been a while, it's truly been a while, since I last felt like smiling to myself when thinking of somebody else.

And so I'm just hanging, limping, limboing, uncertainty looms around the horizon of the early sunrise, and I'm breathing underwater, yearning for oxygen.

before sunrise // before sunset


Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010