how am i, truly

dear pots,

i cleaned out my closet today, and managed to get three bundles of jeans, shirts and skirts that i have barely worn or never worn. its amazing how they accumulate over the years. i even changed my dressing table’s cloth with a new set, the one Mei (I have forgotten his name) gave me in Japan. this was before you came and passed the letter. hours later i drove to seksyen 4 and tossed it in the charity bin.

i only opened your letter at night, when i have turned off all the lights except one from my phone, and began reading.

i haven’t had the house to myself in a long while. it feels odd, to suddenly have a big space to maneuver in. the house were i rent now, feels large but the space you truly occupy is this yellow mattress. some nights amal and go out to different places but otherwise we talk for hours into the night or watch an episode of breaking bad, thanks to your projector. she is a darling to me, but sometimes i get tired of people.

i cherish my mornings, sometimes i shower early and just stare out the window, look at the bleak sky, overlooking the mrt construction, try to peer into other people’s bedroom, and make breakfast – which consists of only cereal, by the way. some mornings i write, but what i write no longer seem to be coherent. they are all either the things i would like to do today, or the things i have planned or wish could happen.

it is not a feeling i would call feeling empty or depressed. i am aching from something i have yet to name, but perhaps it is this, i am suffering from the practicalities of life, that i no longer choose (or rather, have neglected) to focus on how i, truly feel about the way of things. this might purely be a reaction from last year’s terrible mess i have made of myself, that i chose to avoid addressing myself, not in relation to others but solely concerning the self.

i suppose this is why i feel so lost. of what comes next, of whether i will become this hardened person, swept over by these practicalities and realities of life, that i am consuming myself in the process.

i will be married to F in less than two months, and i am happy for this to come. i seldom write of him here because (as I have often said to him), that love to me, to quote Bloc Party, a private kind of happiness. that love needs no proclamation but a quiet resolve that is understood between each other without those words to pass and reach each other.

then again, i am always so terrible with words, that i give myself this excuse of a reply.

but i think i am somewhat doing alright.

well then, till next time.