It had always been black. My heart. Life is not a joyride. It is not even a ride. It stumbled and stopped, stumbled again and stopped. And after all the stumbling, one could imagine the bruises and bumps endured by the strongest muscle of the body. It still beats of course, but every beat reminisce the stumbling and every interval is a void journey of loneliness. A pit black journey that echoes from the back of the heart.
I've come to the point that love is so overrated that I began to assimilate it with Presence, Patience and Perseverence. The three cordial Process of the beckoning of Love. And when love beckons, rainbows and golden cloud will come pouring in like chocolate fondue. As mythtical as that may sound, I'm still hanging to that narrative to describe Love. No matter how I age, or how numb and blunt I've become, raibows and golden clouds will always be my setting of an happy ending.
I've become more lonesome that usual. More irrelevant of attachments. I neither sleep early nor late. I'll only sleep when I feel tired. When the world is fluttery. And when my eyes are heavy. The absence of hope. Gone were the days where I'll pat my pillow three times and excitedly proclaim my ambitions and how it will slowly materialize after a day's hardwork.
Oh hope and love, where art thou?
I am beginning to hate random people who greet me with an Assalaumulaikum because they would do so only when our paths almost collide. It seems to me like a test. To look at me up close to find out whether or not I'm a muslim and then to test me with a greeting. It's annoying as it is haunting, to only realize someone had greet me a second ago and now he's a few metres away from my back. Get my drift? One fine day, I will muster enough bluntness to approach those people and teach them the proper way to greet.