20 November 2005

Staring at the crack on the wall of a friendship, a poet pens a poem about a gold ring. He dedicates it to his best friend. Title: "Safekeeping". Two words below it: "For Melvin". Ten stanzas. The number cannot be more complete.

In the comment box, this exchange struck me.


"From the age of 13, I used to call someone "best friend" but I realised I wasn't really his best friend during JC. But by then, it was no point regretting being on the losing end. In some way, we grew because of each other. The silence which followed caused the word "best" to die peacefully, leaving me with a normal friend. I stopped labelling friends as "best friend" after that, because I felt it was hard to upkeep such a claim alone, as it had to be reciprocal.

We all have our irrational moments when we say things we don't mean. Words can knife, but they can also resuscitate you in a heartbeat. He may have adulterated what was once pristine in quality, but I'm sure the effulgence of fond memory cannot be divested by words alone. They stay alive when buried, resisting the mind's coffin.

Chronologically speaking, it's just a passing phase, this whole thing. Why not try taking the good times, and the bad times. And let the bad times be bygones."

Reply:

"To take the good times means a recession into Nostalgia, since these good moments are not being replenished. I do hope it's a phase, but at the same time, my despair comes from the fact that the year is ending. A certain superstition perhaps, that the twilight nature of November portends the end of things. And all this irrationality, despite knowing full well the months are arbitrary"

My friends write so well.

So I use their words on days where constructing sentences are beyond my energy level.

Back to camp.

Loo, I hope you recover soon. Don't scratch!

D woke up at 11/20/2005 09:34:00 PM [comment]

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