Vivid

Results were horrendous, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I feel like I’m going to submit to mediocrity at this rate. 
I watched two plays last week. Dear Jay, starring Zenda and In Search of Salt starring Ranice. They were plays that touched on suicide and grief and depression and very much letting go of a person that tethers human relationships together. Jay made me smile foolishly at all-too-familiar situations and the very surreal feeling that I was being watched by a God who appreciated dramatic irony very much. Salt was painful as I had wanted to love it so much, but had been thrown out of immersion by the lack of casuality between characters at a play where grief, pride and anxiety were turned to eleven. 

The trip to Bintan was very much a lazy contained getaway to a beach that was a tinge too brown and a sky that was threatening rain for too long to be in the running for paradise. The buffet almost made me cry with its magnificence and we ate like kings. 

The first night was spent at the beachside with An strumming the guitar and crooning Damien Rice. His voice was low and gravelly from the pain of a breakup. I laid on a beach chair next to him and asked him everything about her.

The stars and guitar and waves and sandy toes and full moon fit the gap where Salt had missed. 

The next night, 5 hours of ferry with Ping learnt me so much more about the twins and me and her and her. 

I roamed Clarke Quay today, wondering how she was doing. 

I lived in the now, I said. I was thinking about the breakup and growing at the same time and I learnt that I had the capacity to change others and by extension myself and that nothing could stop me. 

I felt like the world hadn’t left me behind any more.