Soliloquy

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I'm reading my diary now. Page by page, skipping the superficial ones. Going one after another. I reach the pages written by an artless girl. One who dreamed, one who believed, one who bestowed love so unconditionally to the one she falls for.

Then she was gone.

I am afraid. And tired of love. I wanted out because I deserved better. I wanted to be freed from the invisible prison. I wanted release from the pain. Of loving.

It hurts so much loving someone who doesn't want to love, doesn't want to admit he loves me. Or anyone else. Because he, too, is afraid.

So afraid, he would rather shut himself from the world, block the pain that goes back even stronger because he loves, but can't admit it.

Maybe I can safely say I don't love him anymore. But I wonder how much truth lies in that. I'm thinking of him less by the day. And it actually hurts less.

I watch the girl struggling with friendship, with school, with denial, with heartbreak. That was me. I don't know how some people can read their diary like a novel, completely separate from the scene. I can't. The girl was me. And those old pages bring fresh anguish.

I have deleted those entries of my 13-year-old self. And younger. I didn't understand why anyone would want to read it. Because I didn't.

I hated the depressive me. I hated my low self-esteem, my withdrawn nature and how I couldn't even speak up in class. I hated how my teacher screamed at me when she couldn't hear me. How she insulted me when I worked really hard. How she called me spoon-fed.

That is probably why I'm who I am now. I learnt not to care too much anymore. My teachers can hurl as many insults as they want. I would fume. But I wouldn't cry. I would never cry. I didn't want to work anymore. Because hard work didn't pay off. I got into the best class. But I got nothing but more pressure, more insults, less friends.

I erased those entries from the pages of my diary. I didn't want to be reminded of those days where I felt hurt daily, and had nothing but stress and more stress. The days when my "friends" didn't care.

But they still remain in the pages of my history. My mind. Forever.

And someday, I would find the will the love again. Who knows? Maybe it will be tomorrow.

Hopefully, this time, it would be someone who cares.

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I was 8. Both of grandfathers were in the hospital. I remember those late nights of sitting on those hard plastic chairs, the cold, cruel air washing the entire place with fear. It felt and smelt of illness. The white was not of purity but of dismay. It was as if the whole place was crying out for help.

I remember snuggling up to my mother trying to fall asleep on those cold hard chairs. There was school the next day. But I just couldn't bring myself to drift off into slumber. I was young and had no idea what illnesses my grandfathers were suffering from. But I knew enough to be scared. I knew enough to cry.

I saw my paternal grandfather in that hospital ward. A small room with ten beds squeezed into it. The smell of disease was choking me. There was nothing but electric fans on the ceiling.

I remember my father looking in utter consternation. It was less than a month ago that my grandmother was hospitalised. And she demanded the better ward. One with only four patients, rather cosy and air-conditioned even fitted with televisions. It just seemed totally unfair that she had sent my grandfather there. Her husband - but she didn't seem to give a damn.

Dad wanted to make plans to transfer Grandpa into another, less crowded room. But it was too late. Just too late. He died soon after. Too many diseases were burdening him.

I claimed I didn't miss him much. And now, I realise it's just not true. He doted on me, my Grandpa, that he did. I remember the time when I was younger. He travelled long distances just to bring me a McDonald's meal. He bought me candy, treated me to kiddy rides. He loved me.

And the thought that he died in that triste room, with the sickening pang of hope deferred, just breaks my heart.

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