05 June 2014

Another chilly night and I'm buzzed from a few pints with S talking about his relationship and it not working out the way most relationships are expected to. He offered me a cigarrette before boarding the bus that would take him one stop away to home. The rain falls heavier after he leaves. I draw long drags from the stick of nicotine, my head floating past the night into a history not too far away from me. When I was 24 again and C told me he is smoking so fast, fellow smoker friends said he would die earlier than anyone else. C taught me to appreciate the smell of smoke on someone's fingers. I recall all the deep dark nights in London, the quietness of opening my window and letting the night air in. It's chilly, not what I expected of summer, but in a nice way. I didn't want to be reminded of our equatorial island by the weather. The nights of hearing the birds cry were the nights I fell repeated in love with this city, where I gave myself concessions to be astray, to be someone I never thought I would be. But here I am, humming a tune in my head, talking about farewells and how people here were used to them, looking at people on the night buse, each weighed down by their own events of the day and looking forward to the hot shower waiting for them at the end of a long journey. The light in the bus illuminated their weariness, and they looked as far away as where I thought they would have come from. Have I arrived? Or is this merely the beginning?


D woke up at 6/05/2014 08:21:00 AM [comment]

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