wednesday is a humble, unremarkable day.

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_shint

"it was a wednesday. a humble, unremarkable day. the middle child in the weekday family.

a wednesday has to work hard to be noticed. most people let each one pass without comment."

_pseudonymous bosch.

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i search for my dearest quatre-c in the low hiss between his selection of songs, in the gutter between comic panels and in the broken white space around the text. i search for him in the vacant pillow at the left side of my bed. i search for him in the emptied instant coffee cans. i search for him in the corner of old portraits. i search for him in the scent of light green colored body lotion.

i can't find him anywhere, my small seemingly meaningless little wednesday. there's no him, let alone, us. oh, but i have ceased to hope ever since he lost his tongue and failed to clearly say that he has the least romantic interest towards me. instead of doing so, he blabbered about how two sad people will not do.

i didn't cry. i was more confused than sad.

then there were denials. days and nights i spent trying to get my mind occupied because if i let it wanders, it will march on to one direction: a certain tall myopic guy, my skinny love.

come to think of it, i have never really deal with or try to cure my broken heart. whenever such situation occurs, i am always enduring it: curl-up on the corner of my bed crying at night, browse old photo albums recalling the "happy days" ---then cried, write lugubrious forlorn remorseful agonizing blog-posts (my posts on heartache are the best among other topics i posted, a little pygmalionism, i admit to suffer) ---then without my consent, trigger a blog-war with ex's new girlfriend (ahaha, stupid), et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

time heals, i buy that, and those morose activities help a lot. i guess i am excel at expressing melancholias but it's a forte i do not really proud of. there were also several mistakes under the name of persistence i will not prolong, such as play the magnetic fields' i don't want to get over you in heavy rotation, not brave enough to make any move forward (shift+delete) and thus, let chances slipped away.

all i need now is just some more time to pack all these thoughts and hopes and dreams, tuck them into a shoe box then pile it with other boxes of memories. approaching the end, there are periods when all we need to do is just waiting for the feeling to gradually diminish. i believe this is one of that kind of moments and yours truly would just retract and dissipate for a while, slowly pull down the curtain woven of amatories. au revoir, no, adieu?

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“scraps of memory: this is not how a climax should be written. a climax should surge towards its himalayan peak; but i am left with shreds, and must jerk towards my crisis like a puppet with broken strings. this is not what i had planned; but perhaps the story you finish is never the one you begin.”

_salman rushdie.