Tell me your love story

I am once again tortured with this familiar feeling of love. I know I have written several times that I’ve forgotten what it is to be in love. I had even smirked at lovers in my write-ups. But let me admit it’s indeed no joke to stay up when the clock is ticking past midnight and definitely not when I have a long day at work tomorrow. I am almost crossing the thin border line (if there ever is one) of retardation and talking to myself. Thank heavens, my bedroom walls can’t speak. Otherwise it would be a painfully unfunny joke that it would spread. 

I had been in love before and I had been hurt. Let me admit that too. Now I feel like I am in a confession room and I am not even a Christian! This is what love does to you. Well, my experience with love is fully associated with this uncanny feeling of hate. God forbid, I am not a hater. But experience, you know, comes raw sometimes. Experience! I hate that very word tonight. It’s experience that has taught me not to wear my heart on my sleeve (Now that sounds like a woman! Spare me the rolling eyes.). But I am being serious. Love is such a pain in the .. you know what! 

You can call me a dork if you want to but I am going to admit again; I am not really good around women. You know, they are so fragile (I know I will be in trouble with the women readers for this line) and very sensitive! Please understand my plight. I simply don’t know how to act! I am sorry, I am making this piece such a drama with all the interjections after each sentence, but I am speaking my heart out. 

Talking to the table lamp doesn’t help. It cannot tell me if she feels as intensely as I do about her. Maybe she has already entered me into her boy friends’ list. Now, there’s a difference you see; A boy friend and boyfriend is different! My goodness, and I haven’t told her yet how I feel about her. Don’t ask me what I am waiting for. Guess what? I am secretly wishing she would read this piece and somehow, magically understand that I am addressing it to her! Such lack of bravery! This is totally not me, and not this American English too. 

Tell me your love story.

The Third Eye : A Narrative

I don’t remember how long I had known Little Sam but I’ve vivid memories of watching him play in the dust. Clad in an odd green gown, he grew up with a happy smile. His nose was always filled with a thick white snot which he snorted every now and then out of habit. Sometimes, when it really hung low and threatened to go into his mouth, he spread it on his cheeks using his sleeve. He was good at games and he ran really fast. He beat the neighbors’ kids at bull fights and the races alike. He was a kind one too, that Little Sam. He did not mind giving away his coat to the little boy who came to his door with the holy man begging for alms. 

He grew up a fine young man. He was a good hand at the farm and his village folks often called upon him to help them clean the backyard or mend some broken fence. A good lad as he was, he never said no to anybody. He was not exactly the village Jack, no, he stammered when he spoke and he did not make toys for the little kids with his pen knife. He went to school and the Head Master thought he was a bright kid but he was out of there in a couple of years. I never blamed him. You see, school was boring and besides, he could already plough. By village standards, you get the first brew of the ale if you are good at the plough. And if you could drink, you were a man. He fell in and out of love several times. Sometimes, I thought it was infatuation but some other times, it was intense. My memory failed me with the accounts.