In Continuum.

Choices & Consequences

She cooks you sweet potato, you don't like aubergine
She knows to boil the kettle when you hum bars from Grease
She senses you are lonely but still she can't be sure
And so she stands and waits, stands anticipating your thoughts

I was kept awake last night, by the thought of you leaving pools of dried tears in your pillow case. It was a familiar thought of mine months ago, when I used to be the one you turned to for situations like that, for breakdowns like such. But of course, with the hurtful words said and the silent vows made, we went on our different roads and went our separate ways. We are no longer obliged to know, to be updated, to be informed about each others' emotional state. Because after all, the moment the phone was hung up and the dial tone resumed, that was the end of the responsibility that we had for one another. And if I remember it correctly, it was you who hung up first, leaving me to brace the endless note of the ceaseless dial tone.

So why is it that when I was told about your predicament, I was still very much moved? It might have been the curiosity rolling about inside me, as I pictured an empty bottle of beer, spinning and spinning and spinning. They say that curiosity killed a cat, but I guess my own curiosity kept me awake last night. I knew about the school, and kept that stuck to the back of my mind like a Post-It on the wall. But still, the imaginary yellow piece of paper failed to erase the thoughts from my head, and even the thoughts that are less right were free to roam about. There was a dilemma, between the "Should I?" and the "Shouldn't I?" And in the end, I guess you should already know, which side I elected.

How can she become the psychic
That she longs to be to understand you?
How can she become the psychic
That she longs to be to understand you?

Reading a common friend's blog, I thought it was me, if I wrote something - once again - that is hurtful to you, in any way. But I have been careful these days, trying to be as subtle as possible, trying to put down the anger and the agony for other thoughts to distract. It's been working well, and I have reduced the intended words to harmless euphemisms, so I guess in terms of efforts I do deserve a gold star. But anyway, it wasn't actually about me in the end, but rather about the past catching up with you in the form of hurtful words in blog entries.

I imagined you to be affected, one way or another, by the words said about your current relationship, your old ones and you as a person. I understand that you have yet to read them yourself, and you'd probably not waste time on them at all. They are merely members of your past - the one you messed up - who are catching up with you in the race of life. I had my fair share of that whole shebang, in fact our relationship was really born out of trying to get you out of it. I tried, and I tried my very best to do so. Though to no avail at all (Because you did whatever you did), I knew that in a way, I am involved still. However, as I pondered over my options last night, I came to a final conclusion that I am going to stick to for the rest of my life.

He brushes thoroughly, he know she likes fresh breath
He rushes to the station, he waits atop the steps
He's brought with him a Mars bar, she will not buy Nestle
And later he'll perform a love-lorn serenade, a trade

Juggling the thoughts, I weighed my options. There was - on one hand - the overwhelming urge to message you online, via the phone, or even call you to see if you are OK. After all, I was involved in you and this whole incident. On the other hand, I thought about the reasons why I shouldn't do so, and why nothing matters anymore. Because in truth, nothing that I say or do, is going to make a difference to your life, as much as I want them to. I often ponder over the importance of a character in your life, after you've sat down to rewrite them altogether. Or have I been totally erased from your final draft? Am I even going to appear in the final manuscript, or the book itself? Or am I going to be a passing character, like the sight of a long, complicated word in a paragraph?

I fingered the buttons in my phone and scrolled the contacts to your name. In the dark, the green button shone dimly, and it was tempting me to make the call, to tell you that I cared, to tell you that everything was OK. Because you know, I knew, that there is nothing worse than facing a predicament without your significant other around. Him being in camp I imagine, and your female friends always being on the surface of things. I just wanted to be there somehow - for whatever reasons - and I felt obliged as an 'Old Love' to do so. So a war waged as I tumbled around in bed, struggling and playing with the idea of calling you, and asking you how you are doing.

How can he become the psychic
That he longs to be to understand you?
How can he become the psychic
That he longs to be to understand you?

I didn't. In the end, I didn't. It was a difficult decision, but one that I made with much force and will. It's all about choices and consequences, and you should have thought about the latter when you decided on the former. When you made a decision - or didn't make a decision, which makes it one anyway - to intervene in their relationship, this is the kind of shit that you get. All the bitching, all the misunderstandings, all the invasive questions in the deep night and all that jazz. This is the kind of past that is going to catch up with you inevitably, when you made that kind of choice. I am not saying that their words and acts can be - in any way - justified. After all, they are merely childish bickering about an issue long dead and revised a million times over. However, though I am not sure how you are reacting to it, you shouldn't blame her, or in any way be accusing of her in any way. Because this is what happens, this is the consequence. You made that choice, so bear with it.

Anyway, back to me. I didn't call, because I knew how you are going to sound like on the other side of the phone. Surprised perhaps, then followed by that condescending way of saying that you are fine. It always happens this way, this is the script that you use all the time. But I guess in a way, I just didn't want to risk hearing that you are happily living your life - your love life - when I am not. How childish of me, how narrow-minded. But I can't help myself, can I? How lousy one can feel at times, and totally helpless at the same time.

So give her information to help her fill the holes
Give an ounce of power so he does not feel controlled
Help her to acknowledge the pain that you are in
Give to him a glimpse of that beneath your skin

I made the decision to close my eyes, to wait for the sound of my cellphone vibrating in the morning, the cue for me to wake up. Because in truth, for the most part, I simply did not care for you. Not a single ounce of me cares about you right now. From the moment I made up my mind about not calling you, not being concerned, there I was writing down a note to self, that there isn't a part left of me that wants to be the pillar that you have support from, or the cushion to fall on. There is a new boy, so there isn't a real need for me anyway. Besides, you made that choice in the past, you shouldn't expect me to care about you any more than a random stranger on the street. This, is the consequence that you have to bear, as well. But I am sure, in contrast to the one before, you are more than willing to oblige to this one. It's so easy to write me off, isn't it? Like boxes on a calendar, one day is gone within twenty four hours. One more box off the table, one day closer to throwing it into the bin.

This is not being cruel, or being heartless. Not giving a shit about your life is merely my way of self-defense. In fact, reading the common friend's blog entry made me more worried about her than any of the parties involved. On hindsight, I was foolish enough to harbor that thought in mind, the one that involved me dialing your number, and then catching up with you about our lives. The thought itself, to think about it now, is more than ridiculous. This is the cold hard truth from me to myself, the kind that's not going to be welcoming no matter how you see it. Nobody wants their past partners to harbor a hate, or anger, or to care little about ourselves. Everybody wants to be loved, even if it is from the love that you had to let go of in the past. But this is me, to you, telling you not to care about me - which I am sure you are doing very well - because I don't care about you. At all.

So here's the truth, you can start hating me now.

Now my inner dialogue is heaving with detest
I am a martyr and a victim and I need to be caressed
I hate that you negate me, I'm a ghost at beck and call
I'm failing and placating, I berate myself for staying

I'm a fool...
I'm a fool...

He greets the stranger meekly, a thing that she accepts
She sees him waiting often with chocolate on the steps
He senses she is lonely, she's glad they finally met
They take each other's hands, walk into the sunset

Do you like sweet potato?