May doldrums

I feel like a fat horse in the middle of the Indian Ocean off Mauritius in a 18th Century galleon without the sea winds. Someone just throw me off the deck, please?

I watched Forgetting Sarah Marshall again today. Hilarity. Makes me feel good. I tried re-watching Love, Actually before in the afternoon but fell asleep halfway through it. After waking up didn’t feel like continuing. This is not to say I don’t like the movie. As a matter of fact, Love, Actually has been one of the better romantic comedies in recent years, a warm concoction of sea food with red wine in a classy restaurant which leaves your stomach full and satisfied. It’s a most decent date movie, one you can curl up in the sofa with your girlfriend, along with chips and fruit cocktail. Love, Actually is more romantic mush than comedy, unlike Forgetting Sarah Marshall, which is more comedy than romantic drama.

In the end, it appears I needed more laughs than than a post-modern philosophical preaching of  love, actually.  Yeah, I need to smile a bit more. As if I’m not enjoying the divine comedy of the month of May enough.

Disappear

I think I know you Miss D. But I’m kidding myself. I don’t understand you. I don’t know you. No I don’t. How could I possibly do?

You’re strange, and distant.

You’re my Melian. I fear you’ll soon disappear in the west horizon and I’ll never see you again. I fear my fear may come true, as my fears often do.

Epiphany

Just realized how much I want you to read this. If only you’ve had a little more affinity for the interconnected cyberspace.

Actually, Miss D, I want you to keep coming back to this place, this blog. ‘Cause I have so many things to say, I know you have and yet you’re so far away. Like right now, as the storm rages outside I would like nothing else but just to drown in your eyes and listen to all your stories.

You may never read this, our roads may never cross ways, you may never come here. But I so badly want you to. The anticipation makes me smile.

I try to pretend it’s one of those hotblooded boyhood infatuations which won’t survive the long winter. But it has. And I keep losing to you every day I pretend it has not.

It’s not love. How can it be? Maybe I’ve become too world-weary for my own good but what’s “love” anyway these days? It sells fluffy brown teddy bears. It’s a marketing strategy.

But I love the way you think.