9 October
Everything seemed to finally go back into perspective.
By the contrast, implicit; by the contrast, across time.
Something in me registers it. Something stirs in my vault of memories, but I know now it's not my place to open them.
They never will need to be opened.
I realised that I'd been wandering towards the wrong train of thoughts. Conveniently forgetting the lesson Pip needed to learn- sometimes the past cannot be returned to just because you will it to. Time moved on.
The second time I saw you then, I was at better peace with the vault, that which has frequently lurked under the surface.
I sometimes entertain myself with the belief that people who scrutinise closer would be able to see. It would have accounted for why you seemed to always see- always get it right.
Would that opinion credit you too much, I wonder.
It seems so obvious to me- but what people find obvious I'm oblivious of.
Everything is back in perspective, believe me. My mind wandered in strange directions, my expressions in strange constructions- but I finally have sorted this out.
Since I can't defeat time, the next best would be to reconcile myself to the effects of time.
Something I've always resisted, but I find myself forced to learn, coerced into accepting.
This time though, I make my peace with the hand of time.
11 October
The littlest of things perhaps. But it made me remember the enthusiasm with which you said hi last time. It reminded me of a time that was much closer, much less controlled by arbitrary restraints.
It's a pity we've both grown up.
It's a pity we've drifted.
When I get caught up with looking inwards, the only effect of negating that thought is to make me wonder... If we were that far to begin with.
Arbitrary restraints.
It seems that I surround myself with them. They overlap sometimes in such inexplicable ways, so that I myself fear the being that I am.
Who'd I be to complain about the fearful complex world, when I myself am a culprit of complicating things?
The ability to reason is one I won't give up for the world. But I fear exploiting it.
I fear that I will twist black to white, twist truth to excuses, twist wrong to right.
I fear overconfidence, I fear forgetting who I am.
Who am I?
As we read that extract from "The second Mrs Tanqueray", I found my insecurities flooding back to me.
With some people, I seem to behave in one way... With others, some other way. For some I rouse myself, manage to become... foolish, hyper, chatty, stupid. For some I treat with near formality, smiles restricted thus likewise.
It makes me wonder. When I stand before the eyes of judgement, how deep am I in for it under the charge of hypocrisy?
For you, they are restricted even more. Intentionally.
I wonder if you noticed, realised, bothered. I wouldn't know.
One thing flits distinctly out of the haze that is my brain- one thing I know for sure.
I'm not a good person.
Everything considered... I'm not a good person.
Perhaps all I've had these while is the amazing ability to look the part.
"Propriety" is not my favourite word.
"Image" might on the other hand make it somewhere near.
Without it, I'm not sure what's left.