Caught in Your Hair

I never give you my number,

I only give you my situation, 

and in the middle of investigation,

I break down... 

Does it sound familiar? No, not who wrote it! We all know it's a Beatles song. Doesn't it remind you of somebody? Don't lie to yourself now. 

While the day's accumulation of germs flowed downwards, carried by suds and lukewarm water, what bubbled in my slowly refreshing mind is the rationalization of my spontaneity. Isn't it absurd, to see the two words together? Like much of this life that can be dumb-downed to the most banal simplicity, spontaneity is but the invention of a willful ego which will not for the life of it admit that it too is a slave to necessary rationalization. All of a sudden, the liveliness and the stupidity that governs youth seem to have quiet down into a monotone buzz.

I am spontaneous because I'm scared of sudden bursts of pain. Hurt which seep through the unconscious to the conscious, having had enough time to ferment, like sweet wine would bring me to a dizzying plane of indulgence. Between instantaneous pain that would not last and the subtle hurt that gnaws away at my reserve, my masochistic tendencies cannot help but favour the latter. Thus for me, being spontaneous is both a preconditioned self-defense mechanism and the key to an endless reserve of emotional suffering. Ah, the pain! 

Intense is the high that accompanies a heart that beats twice as fast-- the burning cheeks are proof. Being hung up high and dry when the God of Rain answers not your prayers for a blessing, what else is left but to keep on hoping for that first raindrop. With growing hope, the void expands. 

Since when did I start scripting our future? But I don't even know you. As was before, I probably am only in love with the thought of you, and not you yourself. 

I want to disappoint myself too, and laugh it off, that I may move on from the daydream that exists within the forest that is your hair.