Came home, and it was dark and quiet.
That familiar aroma of Asian cooking, now gone. The silhouettes that sat on the couch with playing Candy Crush and the other busy minding the kitchen, now gone. The dirty old men’s jokes, the luggages, the toiletries…. all gone.
Apart from my luggage and the shopping bags, the room is empty. The extra bedding had been put away, and I have the king bed all to myself again.
Somehow, it didn’t feel good.
Came home hungry; and I have to make myself 3-minute noodles instead of some flavoursome lunch.
Came home, and my hands and feet and heart felt too heavy to unpack. Why should I, anyway? The room is big enough to handle my own mess.
The pain is incurable. The agony is from within, shot right through the heart from deep down the guts.
Coiling up didn’t help ease the pain. I guess, such misery derives from the lack of sense of belonging and the sense of knowing. I don’t know if I belonged here and there; I don’t know what is coming; and I don’t know if distance and time would gradually obliterate the love and bonds.
Like all cases.
Sometimes I don’t know if I’d love having company. No, wait. I love having company. But I just don’t know if I love handling the aftermath, when everyone leaves and go back to their separate lives.
You toughen up. You minimise most, if not all, emotional attachments. You constantly occupy yourself. You trained yourself well enough to face the desolation.
You were doing so bloody well, so good at seeking alternatives for the occasional melancholy. The the visit got you off track. And when everyone returns to their own world, you have to re-learn and re-detach.
It is harder than starting from nothing.