POW, wow

Harith Bizarro calls me out and after much bitching we decide to meet in our old haunt, Little India. As is very typical, I get there early and he late so I'm hanging out alone at POW for about two hours. Our theme for tonight is "I Remember When I Was a Backpacker Last Month", but Harith states plainly, "So, slippers and shorts right?"

It's been a bit more than a half-year since we last met and it starts out a little awkward but things begin to warm up. His pint of Hoegaarden and my stubby of VB lubricates things just enough, and the tension in me eases somewhat. We're speaking fondly like old ns kakis again.

On the walk back to catch the last train, our conversation turns to what exactly happened in the last few days. But really, who knows and who cares why things turned sour? Nothing much matters now, we're mates again. The placid night holds in it some kind of expectancy, the kind that makes it placid, not still, not calm, the kind that brings with it some kind of tremulous sensation in each ticking of the second hand.

It is trying to say something, though it was not apparent then. But now, putting thoughts down, sketching a mind map, it is clear. This new independence, confidence and willingness to be with myself, seems to have put a rest to the unresolved feelings towards abandonment, perceived or otherwise. More specifically, the benefit of hindsight made it clear how badly Harith must have wanted to get away from Jurong. It felt so real then, it still does, the silver sharpness still glistening in the back of my mind. But I understand it enough now, enough to shine a little bit of light in that corner, and know it for what it is, know that it itsnt a threat anymore.