On Seeking Love

There are those inexplicable moments of vulnerability in our twenties which invade our invincible façade and make us start questioning if there was something inherently wrong with us which prevented us from finding love.

Yes, I’ve been through that.

“Being single is a choice. I refuse to compromise. I’m living the life that I want to live and making myself the best that I can be. I just have not met the right person.”

I’ve heard all that. Not the least from my inner self to my vulnerable self in the middle of the night. It can all be true. But there are moments when the truth is not the answer to the yearning in your heart.

And then I started, “Project Getting Attached”. It’s a posthumous name to the Project by the way. I wouldn’t be so cheesy. Or that frank with myself then. It seemed to me then that the endeavour smacks of desperation. Continue reading “On Seeking Love”

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Scent

It was just a whiff as I stood beside him. My heat skipped a beat and the tiniest pause in my words betrayed my surprise. I held my breath for that moment that went on for ever so long. My glance flickered up from the document in my hands into his eyes.

Very surreptitiously, I released my breath in an attempt to cover my misstep. I completed my sentence and  nodded in response to his question. At the same time, involuntarily and in an indulgence of my greed for more, I replenished my emptied lungs with a long, deep and deliberately measured breath.

Be still, my heart. 

Yangon

I was always arbitrary in my feelings towards Yangon. I felt at the back of my head that I should love Yangon, and couldn’t help feeling slightly guilty that I didn’t know if I did.

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The Yangon Skyline this evening

 

I knew I loved Kyangin, where I was born. I didn’t recall much of Mandalay, where I had spent some of my youth. I didn’t dislike Yangon, but I didn’t feel much for it any other way either.  For a place where I spent most of my time before I left Myanmar, and a place so romanticised by tourists and foreigners alike, I didn’t have the emphatic “these-are-my-roots” sentiments.

The Yangon that I came back to didn’t hold the first-time wonders that it did to many foreigners who came in, eager to see the place where time stood still, locked away from the rest of the word.

It also didn’t hold the familiarity and comfort of a homecoming. Continue reading “Yangon”