untitled. yet.

when was the last time you held someone's hand and felt their cold sensation spreading through your warm skin, up to your chilling bones, to every inch of your numb-beating heart? the time when you felt this strong need, this throbbing pain to protect that person from anything, everything that could harm him? and to swear time after time to never leave him behind, what more to forget him.

and how many times have you broken those promises?

as i'm typing this, letter by letter, i felt myself shrinking in size, so small until the keyboard looked so huge and magnanimous. as big as the emotions bundled up inside, so tight that it suffocated my lungs, that i forced myself to stay awake; eyes wide enough in case the feelings burst out and shattered into million tiny pieces. you see, i've no sellotape to glue them back piece by piece, and besides it'll take too much of my time. every minute counts, especially when you have only one story to boast.

this is not my story. i wish it were, since most top-sellers happened to be the true story of the pathetic and melodramatic life of the writer, most probably about someone's death. and how they miraculously lived to tell the heart-wrenching story. corny, but profitable.

i, for once, did not write for money.

i knew it. i knew you were hoping i would type that one sacred and purity-based line above. sorry to snap you out of your la-la land, no offense. i can just imagine how you would look with that so contempt expression plus that naiviety that i couldn't help to try my luck. truth be told, everyone lives their lives always for the wrong reason. always. men married women for beauty. kindness is a bonus. women married men for security. love is a bonus. writers write for money. passion is a bonus. you read for pressure. pleasure is a bonus.

again, this is not my story. you can stop reading now if you felt that i am offending or insulting your intelligence by writing such insolent words with no inclination whatsoever about the hardships that you have to face, like washing 2-year-old Timothy's napkins to save cost, or hiding your car keys from your teenage son until you forgot where the brilliant secret hideout really is and ended up giving birth to Timothy's little brother in the garage and feeling not so brilliant anymore.

or you can read this just to kill time and wait for that jerk boyfriend of yours to finish his football practice and pick you up from the mall. and if you found this story to be totally lame, you can always hit his head with the laptop. never throw away a story. good or not, keep it. it might come handy someday. so hit him hard. but not hard enough to cause him into a coma. brain hemorrhage no. memory lost maybe. epilepsy yes. it's easier to cure and less chance getting sued by his poor parents.

this is a story. just is.

***

ish xde mood plop nk taip..ngantuk haaiiiih...;)

*momentum hilang tetibe2 sbb certain someone yg persistently popped his face into my mind. eeekk..*

TO BE CONTINUED. OR NOT.