You know how it is,
when you don't know how much you miss someone until you see them,
and then you realise,
that what you truly wish for now,
is for the power to turn back the clock.

I took pains in picking out my outfit today.
It wasn't because I was trying to impress.

In fact,
it was just the opposite.

It was pride, I guess.
That insane emotion that drives you to look presentable,
and yet not overdressed,
to portray an image,
to convince that you are really living the life now,
that you've never been better.

He looked good,
in a long-sleeved-rolled-up-to-the-fore-arm casual shirt,
yes,
just the kind that I really like to see a guy in.
And canoe-polo?
It shows.

So I observed him.

He looked to me,
and felt, to me,
so weary.
It wasn't just physical exhaustion,
it was weariness,
like that of an old man,
an old seafarer.

He lost that shine,
that drive,
that feeling of "I-know-what-I-want"
that gave a 16 yr-old that sense of absolute security,
that extraordinaire
that made everyone else after him pale in comparison.

Of cos,
some would argue that he didn't lose his ideals,
it's just that men like wine,
mellow with age.
They mature,
and it isn't that they've lost their goals and dreams,
it's just that they've gained the skepticism of reality.

(I say that fine wine,
just like every other thing,
should not be kept for too long.
Althoh the taste might get better,
I don't like what hallmark says, about what will happen to the cork....)

It's almost painful,
it's like seeing a vibrant photo yellowed and faded.

He became very religious.
I knew a long time ago that he's a christian.
But I never expected him to be such a devout.
And I made a face when he started to share about his faith.
It isn't because I do not respect his religion.
It's just that at that very moment,
I lost some of the respect that I had for him.
Call it the influence of too much karl marx,
but I always thought that religion and faith is more of a construct,
a shelter people run to when they grow weak and fail to stand up for themselves.

Watching him,
listening to him,
I realised that I really do not have much to say to him anymore.

It's ironical
because I always thought that there's so many things I'd like to tell him,
and it's ironical
because its been so long,
there are bound to be so many changes,
so many things
that I thought I wanna know about him.

There were really changes,
so many that I do not know how to begin to list them all,
so many that I begin to wonder if they belonged to him,
or to me.

Cos as I listened to him,
and as I looked at him,
really looked at him,
all that I saw,
was a stranger in the body of the guy who taught me what it was to cry.

And then again,
as I watched his familiar back
moving further and further away,
as it gets smaller and smaller,

I knew that I already started missing him.

But we can't turn back the clock, can we?
And we can't take back the choices that we made.
In the end,
the only thing that we can do is talk about the past,
evaluate it in the light of supposed maturity,
maybe even distort it a little,
all in the hopes of making it a little better,
all in the hopes of having a little less regret.

But we are really,
merely living the illusion of reliving the past,
aren't we?