There’s nothing worse than seeing a grown man cry. I saw it in ‘The pursuit of happyness’. I saw it in ‘Ta rapa pum pum’ (or whatever it is that shitty Saif movie is called). I saw it in every sappy Valentine movie the remote was willing to surf to.
“It’s much easier to pretend.” she said. And she’s right, for once. It’s harder to live the genuine life. It’s difficult to be sincere when faith is unanimously divided.
He’s just sad. He’s just sad his mom died. They call him mad. But he’s just sad. And tonight I like the pretender. Tonight I like the boy who holds back those tears cos he doesn’t want the world to believe in his misery. Tonight I love the fakeness of a gun to my head. Tonight I won’t arrest that free spirited liar!
And as I whiten all the blackheaded stones in my garden, I’d like to commend all those who shed tears as eye medicine. I’d like to say I know what I’m doing.
“The anger that she feels can only come from love.” And that thin line called hate shifts and breaks like a kitestring that trapped an eagle. I will, metaphorically at least, decide why I have not cigared on the terrace. And on the other side of that line, my witness awaits. That imaginary friend who says, “I’ll come over”. I’ll bridge that river between love and hate, peace and war, death and suicide, narcolepsy and insomnia, PR and advertising. All the split personalities in my brain reach their grey best as BL closes and Psyche opens.