December 2005

Yesterday, Mom said that when I got angry, really really angry, I fire words at my poor victim until he or she has no place to run, and that I sound like a bigshot when I talk like that. I can do nothing but agree with her. She also mentioned that because of my intellectual capacity, people feel inferior to me.
~30th. December 2005

Yesterday I dreamt that he kissed me in such a marvellous way.
~31st. December 2005

You watch your father massage your mother’s arm which got hurt when she lifted too heavy a load and putting additional pressure on it while playing badminton.

You feel a fleeting nostalgic wind slide down the corridors of some part of your mind.

You take in the simple beauty of his tanned hands on a porcelain white skin, not to hurt but to aid healing. How small and vulnerable she looked against the cushions, and he protective he looked when he linked his hands with hers to rotate her injured arm.

It feels as if you are violating their interaction with your presence, your gaze. You want to leave them alone when you see that rare smile and blush in her face, the way her loose t-shirt drooped a little to reveal her cleavage.

You wonder if they would make love again, and then you think, after all they’ve been through; would it be a good idea?
~31st. December 2005

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