when we went to kuantan last saturday, we took the mrr2 route. i was in between ingat-ingat lupa. as i drove and drove along the almost forgotten route, a few departments i have ceased visiting is rewalked through.
walk with me.
i remember driving back and forth like mad chasing time. then again, i enjoyed the elevated highway — it felt like i was driving through the clouds. i did a 120 when i could. messed up myself being there for the two people that i am torn in between. although at the time, i was that selfish that my happiness usually comes first.
and my happiness is there, when i saw the familiar rock wall that tells me i’m close to the loft, i’ll be parking at the side, passed the workshop, climbed the four walkups, passed the gym, mangling with the locked door using a card and arrived at that little private space.
at the time i was living only for the weekends where i would see him. taking the trains, taking the taxis and sometimes i allowed myself to take the bus when it’s a nice morning. anticipating his responses so madly, remembering the late night walks, the metro environment, the green cafe, the grocery shopping, the rain, the smoking by the window, the black and yellow scenes, the silent highway at two in the morning.
the loose change, the simple dishes we ate, the garlic dicing, the black pepper sauce, the sausage slicing, the chinatown area where we searched for pirated CDs, the sizzling mee, the prosperity burger, the fat cheese and mushroom sausages, the engineered jeans, the little luxuries that i could spoiled him and just let him have it all — the sheer happiness of watching him eat, enjoying the food, not because we were poor but the desire for the simplest pleasure.
the happiness. the happiness that was mine. the happiness that made me happy, so happy like those girls in the movies.
i know i shouldn’t. i was clearing up my room. and i realized, i still have his printed e-mails. i had the printouts of my college journals where it was littered with his name. his graffiti works of my name on the drawing pad of his. the dvd he burned. i greeted with the burning question, “why did you do this to me?”
lepas satu, satu benda came, reminding me of him. i thought i’m done. i thought i really did. these are the times when i am just too disappointed with myself. i shouldn’t be here. why am i still crying?
i am glad, he never saw the house again. somehow i have always forgotten to take pictures of how the new look took shape to show it to him — and i’m glad i did. i’m glad, i never made the caramel pudding for him, somehow i could never find the time to do it. i’m glad that we never so much spent time at my newfound playground. i’m glad that HE let this happened.