Today is the first day that I shed no tears. I woke up after 8 hours of sleep. I went to school. I picked some books for returning to the library. I had tea with Steve, May and Ma Ngok at UC Canteen. Then I sat in front of the computer until now. Everything seems normal, and I am as listless as usual.
I was suddenly obsessed with fear that I would forget how he looks like very soon, and I don’t know whether I should let this happen. I haven’t seen him for weeks. I keep an ID photo of his in the wallet, but I dare not to take it out. The same applies to the photo stickers that we took after Ball’s farewell dinner a year ago. Photos of him taken throughout the past years are stored in the old computer, and I dare not to turn it on. Some of the photos are still stored in my digital camera, and I haven’t taken it out from my bag for a week. His face is still vivid as expected, but unapproachable. My vocabulary is insufficient to describe his smell, but anyhow I remember it as clearly as usual.
I try not to think about him so frequently. I go to bed right after I arrive home every day. I ignore the old computer and the Don Don lamp on my desk. I imprison the Kam Kam doll in the most inner part of my wardrobe. I avoid sending SMS to people. I order vegetarian meals. I stop paying attention to bus routes and names of roads. I stop reading Xanga subscriptions (sorry for the others on my subscription list that I intentionally stop learning whether you are doing well because of this). I limit the checking of emails to 4 times a day. I escape from soccer news, particularly those about FC Barcelona.
Regardless of these efforts, I still see him sitting next to me. I still hear myself babbling to him. I still find myself thinking of revisiting places that we have visited, new places to take him to, and new jokes to tell him, though he might not be interested at all. Sometimes I persuade myself that I am used to doing them all the time, waiting for unknown replies at any moment. I have always been waiting for something, either acceptance or refusal, and I am used to getting refusal. Nothing is new, including the sense of abandonment and, ridiculously, the sense of intimacy derived from it.
Mom left a message that pride should not be deprived of. Somehow I can’t agree with this. If pride has really mattered, I would not have been sustained till now. The day when my pride is picked up again is the day when he is entirely driven out of my heart, but this seems to be far beyond my imagination and, probably, willingness. I really hate myself like this because, again and sad to say, this is the part of mine that he dislikes.
I was suddenly obsessed with fear that I would forget how he looks like very soon, and I don’t know whether I should let this happen. I haven’t seen him for weeks. I keep an ID photo of his in the wallet, but I dare not to take it out. The same applies to the photo stickers that we took after Ball’s farewell dinner a year ago. Photos of him taken throughout the past years are stored in the old computer, and I dare not to turn it on. Some of the photos are still stored in my digital camera, and I haven’t taken it out from my bag for a week. His face is still vivid as expected, but unapproachable. My vocabulary is insufficient to describe his smell, but anyhow I remember it as clearly as usual.
I try not to think about him so frequently. I go to bed right after I arrive home every day. I ignore the old computer and the Don Don lamp on my desk. I imprison the Kam Kam doll in the most inner part of my wardrobe. I avoid sending SMS to people. I order vegetarian meals. I stop paying attention to bus routes and names of roads. I stop reading Xanga subscriptions (sorry for the others on my subscription list that I intentionally stop learning whether you are doing well because of this). I limit the checking of emails to 4 times a day. I escape from soccer news, particularly those about FC Barcelona.
Regardless of these efforts, I still see him sitting next to me. I still hear myself babbling to him. I still find myself thinking of revisiting places that we have visited, new places to take him to, and new jokes to tell him, though he might not be interested at all. Sometimes I persuade myself that I am used to doing them all the time, waiting for unknown replies at any moment. I have always been waiting for something, either acceptance or refusal, and I am used to getting refusal. Nothing is new, including the sense of abandonment and, ridiculously, the sense of intimacy derived from it.
Mom left a message that pride should not be deprived of. Somehow I can’t agree with this. If pride has really mattered, I would not have been sustained till now. The day when my pride is picked up again is the day when he is entirely driven out of my heart, but this seems to be far beyond my imagination and, probably, willingness. I really hate myself like this because, again and sad to say, this is the part of mine that he dislikes.
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